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1
\
LONDON SOCIETY.
%n lllttstratjeb SJa^a^im
OF
LIGHT AND AMUSING LITERATURE
ros
THE HOURS OF RELAXATION,
VOLUME XVI.
LONDON;
OFFICE, 217, PICCADILLY, W.
1869.
LONDON:
rRI3«TED BT WILLIAM CLOWES AMD SONS, BTAUrORD STREET
AND CnARI^O CROSS
CONTENTS.
Cnsrab(tis)if.
Drawn by Page
A Clever Dog 462
A Dilemma .. .. .. .. .. .. .. Wilfrid Lawson. 136
A Winter's Night T. MoHen. 550
At Albert Gate Gordon 2 homson, 274
Dark or Fair -. .. .. .. .. .. .. Tousnley Green, 224
Down at Westminster TTw. -Brtiaion. 289, 292, 294
Dear December B, Ridley. 496
Filo and Fide .. .. .. .. .. .. .. Horace Stanton, 64
Going to Mudie's .. .. .. .. .. .. LoiU$ Huard. 448
Humours of the Iioad .. .. .. .. .. .. WilHam Brunton. 241
In the Heart of the Eailh . . . . . . . . . . Gordon Thomson. 54
Is it for this? C. BobcHs. 49
London-super-M<ire ., .. .. .. .. .. Horace Stanton, 417
Mr. Hardcastle*s Friendly Attentions .. .. .. .. Adelaide Claxton, 208
Nina at the Cottage Window .. ., .. .. .. Wilfnd Lawson, 193
Nina Listening „ 236
Only for the Season „ 386
Park Kangers .. .. .. .. .. .. .. William Brunton. 105
Botten Row Gordon Thomson, 97
'Saved* Wilfrid Lavson. 327
Second Blossom . . .. ,. .. .. .. J. J). Watson, — Frontispiece.
Studies from Life at the Com-t of B>t, James's : —
No. V. H.H.R. The Ci-own Princess of Prussia .. .. George H, Thomas. 80
VI. H.R.H. Piincess Beatrice „ 192
vn. H.R.H. The Princess of Wales „ 288
VIII. Lady Elma Bruce „ 384
IX. Countess Reventlow . . . . . . . . „ 480
Too Late! Wilfrid Lawson, 74
The Affair of the Red Portefeuille A.W. Cooper 490
The Archery Lesson .. .. .. .. .. .. Horace Stanton 169
The Cmsh Room G, Crmhshank, Jun, 96
* The Dinner Party' Wilfnd Lawson. 385
The Engaged Ring n,Newoombe,^ 513
The last Boat of the Season from Margate . . . . . . William Brunton. 353
The Love Bird of the West 365
The Sportsman's Resolve G, B. Goddard. 528
Which of the Three? To'cnley Green, 127
Who Comes Here? H. Paterson, 319
163825
17
Contents.
Cross Purposes. — In five Chapters . .
How Mr. Hinter Won aiid Lost his
Seat for Golborough
In the Heart of the Earth . . . .
M. or N. :—
SIX. An Incubus
XX. The Little Cloud .. ..
XXI. Furens Quid Foemiaa
XXII. Not for Joseph
XXIII. Anonymous
XXIV. Parted
XXV. Coaxing a Fight
XXVI. Baffled'
XXVII. Blinded
XXVIII. Beat
XXIX. Kight Hawks
XXX. Under the Acacias . .
Mr. Hai-dcastle's Fnendly Attentions,
and what csme of them : —
Chap. I. Bewilderment at Brighton
II. What happened at the
Zoological Gardens ..
Ill, Riding, Dining, and Lore-
making
150
Page
531
50
65
70
75
128
133
139
231
235
320
326
330
336
103
197
204
Mr. Hardcastle's Friendly Attentions,
and what came of them — continued.
IV. Whom shall she marry . . 208
V. After the Honeymoon' .. 210
Only for a Season : —
Chap. I. Dr. Seeker makes a Pro-
fessional Visit .. .. 385
II. The Meet at Bedford Biidge 388
III. The Youns: May Moon .. 391
IV. Lady Crevi lion's Letter .. 394
V. Amongst the Fallen Grain 306
VI. Drowned in the Bay of
Naples .. ..' .. 39^
VII. In the Pleasant Dyke ..401
ViiT. AreyouSo}Ty? .. .. 402
The Alfair of the He^l Portefeuille ..481
The Thi-ec Overheai-d Whispera : —
Chap.l. TheFiretWhisi)er .. .. I
II. The Second Wliisper .. 4
III. The Thii-d Whisper .. 6
IV. In the Forest of Fon-
taiiibleau 9
Jbltttcf^eir.
A Harp Accompaniment 123
Afternoons in the Park 97
Ancient Hostelries : —
No. ni. Concerning Angels, Dra-
gons, and ceiiain an-
cient Palaces .. .. 25
Dolgelly and its Attractions .. .. 56
DoveDnie 38
Going to Mudie*s 445
Govemesses 348
Heniy Parry Liddon and Anglican
Oratory 467
Light-headed Sovereigns 212
Mr. O'Reilly 528
Opposite a Cabstand 491
Outsldei's of Society, and their Homes
in London .. ' 339
Parisian Clubs Past and IVesent . . 13
Sketches in the House of Commons : —
No. I. The Front Treasmy Bench 112
11. Ditto, ditto (oon/mutfrf) .. 275
III. The Front Opposition Bench 367
Sketches from our Office Window: —
From Midnight to Midnight . . . . 418
Summer Days among the White
Mountains .. .' 144
The Early Days of Napoleon III. : —
Chap. 1 405
II 560
The Matrimouiai Agent 181
Veiy Old P.'ople 90
Contents*
fSiiittXixmtivui Ifiupttii.
Pu{e
A Book for Fair Women 522
A Provincial Ball in France .. ..455
A Ran to the South after Creatuie-
Comfoiis .. 170, 243, 354, 424, 552
Orenznach and its Sa1in<» Cure . . . . 433
i'odes of Ceremonial— N'o. H 216 I
Coi'sets and Corpulence 312 ,
Down at Westminster 289 I
From Remenham Island to Heiilry .. 107 •
Furnished Houses 449
In a Kentish Meadow — A Retrospect 225 I
Oxford as it is 305 i
Poppies in the Corn; or, Glad Hours
in the Grave Years : —
No. Yiii. An Autumn Wulic .. 253
IX. Old Friends 514
Public School Types 33
Questionable Faces 511
Social Superstitions 17
The Brompton Hospital for Consump-
tion 44
The Past and Future of the Girl of
the Period 463
I'ago
The Piccidilly Papers: —
Forster's Life of Lnndor . . . . 80
The Royal Academy 83
The late G. H. Thomas's Exhibition
of Paintings 84
Mistakes in Life 86
Sleeplessness and Sleep 188
The Palestine Exploration Fund .. 191
Cmbb Robinson's Diary .. .. 263
Mr. Mill on the Subjection of
Women 268
The Ventuor National Hospital .. 270
The Seven Curses of London.. .. 273
At Buxton 375
At Eel-pie Island 377
Mr. Stopford A. Brook 379
Notes on Books 381
Scarborough 477
Michaelmas Term at Cambridge .. 542
Mornings at a Studio 544
Hunting Waterfalls 546
The Regatta Week at Ryde .. ..283
The Romance of Medicine .' 497
Young England and Young America .. 412
90etrp.
A Bunch of Withered Violets .. .. 88
AHeartUnfellowed 230
A Winter's Night 550
At Albert Gate — In and out of tlic
Season 274
Autumn 384
DjirkorFair 224
Desidei-ia 49
FloandFido 64
On the River 510
Phases of London Society — A Qever
Dog 462
The Archery Lesson 169
The EngAged Ring 513
The Lay of London-super-Mare . . 417
The Lay of the Crush Room .. .. 95
The Last Boat 353
The Love Bird of the West .. ..365
Which of the Three? 127
Whocomeiheie? 319
vi Contents.
CHRSSTMAS NUMBER FOR 88S9.
FAOB
9 €aat Mti H fta ftititng. By Iklork Lemon. (With Two nias-
trations bj Charles Eeene) .^ .. .. 1
tttaVLd dSlaiiam : or, the Ghriatmaa Sermon. By the Author of * The
Harvest of a Quiet Eye.* (niustratod by J. D. Watson) .. .. 8
C^e <Si\tett €uitnmtr* By Angelo J. Lewis. (Illustrated by Gordon
Thomson) IS
lail^an at €bxvitnua €imt* (Illnstrated by H. Melville) .. 28
C^rilttmotf tf^C Sbenser ! (Brawn by Gordon Thomson) .. 33
Hais} Mr. etikim Betarxurs %U C|^urc|) at ef^viitnua* (mnstrated
by 'Sartor') 34
IT^e Wa^itt Eairs nt Cltm^ertele. A Tale in Throe Chapters. By
Lord Charles Thynne 3i>
fiSLr. iBaiDbam« A ttxle in Five Chapters. By T. W. Robertson, Author
of * Society,' ' School/ &c. (With Two Illustrations by J. Mahoney ) . . 46
C^e Sitatiilff EfM0n. (Drawn by Charles Roberts) 5G
fB^t M^tl af JLKlt^axa ^ttxj^. By Edmund Yates 57
Cf)0 C]gru(tmatf Cre^* (niustrated by W. Luson Thomas) .. 64
Ci^e ittttt of Calderlesi Caurt. By the Author of ' Ruth Baynard's
Story.' (lUusfcrated by John Gilbert) 6a
Chapter L — Guess-work.
II.— Xn Old Home,
IIL — A Revelation.
IV.— A Voice in the Night.
Y.—The Secret TM: The Secret Kei^U
Eittle ULatrg aountlfuL (Drawn by Alfred Crowquill) 80
Cfie Columtillrt e^tiitmsA Sream. (Drawn by William Brunton) 80
Htnta t^e Cliafr fnent CaraXliiis at €fyc\AimKi, (Illustrated by
M. Ellen Edwards) 81
tE^t €%X\Atxani %alCtrasii( at WUi^in^SiXU By George Makepeace
Towle 86
^t 38Iacil »0I. A Mysterious Travelling Story. By aement W. Scott 92
SEHuitratf If fflouble <Sitxoiiit^ 7, 28. 34, 57, 63, 96
•
',♦ The Solutions to the Acrostics unll appear in the February Numher.
lit ri rt'U Til IV
LONDON SOCIETY.
JULY, 1869.
•I WATCHED AND WAiTXD.'— See ' M. OF N.,' page 7«.
THE THKEE OVERHEABD WmSPERS.
CHAPTEE I.
THE FIB8T WHISPER.
NIGHT after night the music
clashed in our rear. It was
Tery pleasant and interesting, as
we lounged about in our little
garden, or took coffee in the small
bnilding that serred ns for a
snmmer-honse. We were liying in
VOL, XYI.— Ha xci.
Paris, and, for the sake of economy,
quite close to the barriers, for the
rents get wonderfally cheaper as
yon clear away from the Gnamps
Elys^ and the Faubourg. Now
close to our residence there was
some place of public entertainment,
B
The Three Overheard Whitpere.
the Salle d'Artois, I think they
called it We did oot mnch like
the proximity, bnt there was never
any noise or distorbanoe, and the
crash of the music through the
summer air was at times pleasant
enough. It is astonishing what
children in respect to amusement
our heroic neighbours are. In the
pettiest locality they get up some
parody of a theatre or some imita-
tive Mabille. I am bound to say,
however, that our Salle d'Artois
was a considerable ornament to our
avenue, which converged, like many
other identical avenues close by, to
the main boulevard and the per-
petual rond point. There was a
revolving gate to the salle, or
jardin, before which the inevitable
gendarme lounged, and on each
side there was a bowery expanse
of foliage, and in the foliage were
niched statues, daspedly holding
lamps that shed a mild, seduc-
tive lustie. The general notion
conveyed by the whole was that this
illumiuated pathway led you on to
some ideal hall of du zling delight ;
but we knew by the view from our
back windows that the place was a
mere bam, and that it belonged to
that nnmerons claas of entertain-
ments of which the best part is to
be seen on the outride and for no-
thing. A very modaiate price —
half a frane, I thtuk— would give
admission, and of this half franc
half was to be returned to the ticket-
holder in the way of oonmmmation.
It was, in fact, a mushroom sort of
concert or casino place, of which so
many spring up in the outskirts of
Paris, and which provided a kind
of rough entertainment for local
patrons who wanted to do things
cheap, and to be saved a journey
into Paris.
The salle might be necessary for
those people in Lts 2erne« who in-
sisted upon some kind of amuse-
ment everv m'ght, and who, rather
than not have it, would shoot for
nuts or ride on horses in a whirligig.
We Britishers do not require much
amusement, and when we take it
we like it of the very best. I don*t
know how often I had passed the
alluring portal of the salle with its
coloured lights. I don't know how
often I hadn't had the benefit of its
rapid dance music But I can truly
say that the remotest intention of
visiting this choice place of amuse-
ment never crossed my mind.
Neither can I explain to myself up
to thin day how I ever came to do
so.
I remember that it had been very
hot all that day ; that I had stopped
at home trying. all sorts of com-
binatioDS with ice and eau de Seltz,
which had the invariable efifect of
making things in general much
hotter; that in the evening I had
gone to two or three places where
that day was the reception-day ; that
I had come back and, as my custom
was, had smoked and taken coffee,
looked through the 'Moniteur du
Soir' and 'Le Petit Journal,' fa-
vourite publications in our econo-
mical quarter of the city. After
that, in the cool of the evening, I
took my little constitutional torn
round the garden, smelling the wall-
flowers that were our chief horti-
cultural ornament Then I paused.
It was onze heures. Being a man of
r^ular habits, as an ordimry matter
I should have gone in-doors, have
tampered with my constEtution with
some moieioed eflferveBciBg drink,
and oompoaad myself towards slum-
ber witha book. But the music was
crashing so enmhatically that, to
the dismay of Uie concierge, who,
relying on my regular habits, had
foue to bed, I sallied forth into the
oulevard. 'I declare,' I said to
myself, ' I will look up our little
salle to-night. There's nobody who
will know mo. And I've heard the
music so often that they ought to
see the colour of my money.'
Near the entrance there was a
narrow lano—about a stone's throw
off. I think I see it now, narrow,
and so dark from the huge buildings
that lined it And in the lane tlmt
night— I remember it so well— was
a private cabriolet, with a dark-
coloured panel, and two servants in
livery, waiting in a leisurely way,
as servants wait who have waited
long and have long to wait Then
I paid my coin and the enchanted
portal received me. I advanced up
the fairy path, which came to an
abrupt termination at the first
The Three Overheard Whispers.
^arve. I emerged on a mere shed,
imcoTered and opening on a bit of
ground, the general effect being en-
tirely sordid, the sordid effect har-
monizing with all the accompani-
ments. There was some dancing
going on, of an irregular and free-
and-easy kind, a few only indulging
in terpsichorean yagaries, while
many more, seated at little or long
tables, looked critically on. Not a
few men were in blouses, and some
women in caps, a genuine omiriere
class, which had been working hard
all day, steadily looking forward to
their evening's relaxation. Then
there were some very dressy young
>men, with companions equally orna-
mented. Cigars and cigarettes were
freely going. Beer appeared to be
the popular beverage — the black
beer or the biere de Strasburg,
-or that cheap fizzing beer of Paris
which I suppose a g9od restaurant
would hardly admit. Such as had
Bordeaux, or vin ordinaire, were
jnollifying it with water and sugar.
There were also one or two cada-
verous men who even at that hour
were partaking of the infernal ab-
sinthe. One young man I especially
noticed, who was very quietly
dressed, but whose yery superior
appearance seemed tacitly recog-
nized. He was smoking a cigarette
and sipping some maraschino.
Then the band played a fine piece
of music, and played it finely too ;
an overture to some little-known
•opera of Bossini's. Afterwards one
of the band went round collecting
coins in a saucer— another evidence
•of the lowly aims of the establish-
ment I gave largesse, remembering
that this was not the first of my
obligations to the musicians. The
maraschino man, whose offering was
expected with ill-repressed anxiety,
dropped in the delicate, glittering,
■sb'ght five-franc gold piece. Pre-
sently a functionary announced that
Mademoiselle Eose would fEivour the
company with a song, and there
was the heavy thud or knock which
in Prance so ungracefully announces
-a new phase in an entertainment.
When Mademoiselle came for-
ward I gave a start; for if ever
Mademoiselle was equivalent to
Miss, it was so here. And when she
b^an to sing, though the pro-
nunciation was French, the accent
was English. She sang sweetly, but
without much force, as sentimental
a French song as such an audience
could be expected to bear. I watched
her face with much anxiety. It
was a very pretty face, and, to my
pleased astonishment, it had an ex-
pression of goodness and honesty
about it, on which I am afraid I
had no right to count in such a
place and amid such a company.
Her dress was fastened up to her
throat, close fitting, and very neat
and simple. Her manner was alto-
gether lady-like— not the imitation
lady-like of many minor profes-
sionals, but genuinely and un-
affectedly so. I confess I began [to
entertain a very lively feeling of
interest for the young cantatrice. I
thought I should be glad to make
her acquaintance. My motive was
entirely Platonic and philanthropic.
I belong to the uninteresting order
of Benedicts, and my notion was
that I should like my wife to make
friends with this young girl, who
perhaps had no English friends, and
who was certainly very unfavour-
ably situated, and save her from
what I felt must be a miasmatic
moral atmosphere.
When she had finished singing,
she made her curtsey and took her
seat at a little table near the buffet
of the salon. It appeared, then, that
she was, not likely to retire to a
green-room— indeed it was hard to
see where anything at all corre-
sponding to a green-room might
have a geographical position— but,
with an opera cloak thrown over her
shoulders, continued an object of
public admiration. I moved to-
wards her table, and, relying on the
integrity of my intentions, was about
to make a self-introduction to her.
I was anticipated, however, by the
gentleman whom I had noticed as
the only gentleman in the place,
who finished his maraschino, threw
away his cigarette, and came over
and sat by her side. She gave him
a winning smile of welcome— they
were evidently no strangers — and
entered into that close conversa-
tion that would evidently tolerate
no intrusion. They were talking
B 2
The Three Overheard Whi^^s.
French, which she OTidently under-
stood qnite well. I waited a little
longer, in the expectation that she
might sing again, bnt there were
no signs that this was likely to
happen. Then, as it drew towards
midnight, I left the nlace.
But somehow I aid not care to
turn in even then. I paced up and
down the boulevard, smoking my
cigar in the balmy starlight night.
Seyeral times I passed the entry of
the jardln. The people were coming
out, and by-and-by they came out
in a considerable number. Then I
knew the entertainment was come
to a close. The carriage was still
standing at the entry of the dark
narrow lane, but the servants were
manifestly getting under weigh for
departure. I went leisurely along
to the end of the avenue, and
then turned once more, taking the
same path. The carriage had now
emerged from the lane into the
boulevard, but was creeping on at a
very slow pace, and presently be-
came stationary. Turning up from
the boulevard into the avenue, I
came suddenly on a young girl and
a man close by a bench beneath
some linden trees. They were not
sitting, but standing. They did not
vouchsafe mc any notice, but I re-
cognised at once the songstress of
the evening and the gentlemanly
young Frenchman. She was leaning
her head on his shoulder, and sob-
bing grievously as if her heart would
burst. To me it seemed— but the
action was so momentary that I
could not be sure— that he was
pointing with his hand towards the
carriage that was now within sight.
Of course I could not venture to say
a word, or even to pause, but as I
walked very deliberately past them,
I heard a convulsive sob, and then
in English, in a low tone— quite a
whisper —
' Oh, no, no ! It cannot be until
Friday?
When I again turned back to
resume my customary round, the
door of the cabriolet was being
opened by a servant, and methought
it was the same young man who
was entering, but I could not be
certain. The young girl was sitting
absorbed in thought on a bench-
not the same bench, but another
higher up the avenue. With a
sudden impulse I moved to address
her, and respectfully raised my hat.
As soon as she saw me, an expres-
sion of the greatest terror passed
into her face, and she arose, and fled
like lightning down the boulevard,
and was soon lost amid the 6tem&
of trees.
CHAPTEB IL
THZ SEOONB WUiUPXB.
I confess that, before I went to-
sleep that night, my mind was fall
of speculations on this little scene.
At first I was full of commiseration
about this young girl, concerning
whom it was quite clear that she
was lonely and that she was un-
happy. Next my imaginative faculty
set to work weaving a tissue of ro-
mance to suit the somewhat strange
events that I had witnessed. I men-
tally resolved that I would, make-
a point of dropping in at the Salle
d'Artois for the next few nights,
and observe how matters in general
were progressing. In the morning,
over the practical business of de-
jeuner a la fourchette, the little
romance of last night lost all its
colouring. There was nothing so-
remarkable that an English girl
should be singing at a place of en-
tertainment, that she should have a
French sweetheart, and that her
French sweetheart should make her-
cry. I had no business in the world
to obtain a surreptitious view of
those tears. Then I did not see-
how I could carry my evening's in-
vestigations any further. That m'ght
we were going out to dinner to meet
at the apartment of some English
friends who invariably kept us very
late. The night following we had
the offer of a private box at the
Theatre Fran9ais— an offer too good
to be refused. I must postpone
any inquiry, or rather let the matter
drop altogether. Everybody gets
familiar with the experience of
letting a thing drop. There is some
clue to a difliculty, but we cannot
carry it out; some fresh pursuit,
but we have no time to prosecute
it; an interesting correspondence!,..
The Three Overheard Whispers.
bat we nrnst give it up ; a new in-
trodnction, bat we cannot stay to
fiee whither it may lead; and as
grapes, hanging so high that we don't
<!ate to take the troable of climbing
for them, are probably sour, I told
myself that the salie was a brutal
hole not worth entering again, and
that anything I thought remarkable
about the girl was simply the result
of my own frivolous fancy.
I may as well tell the reader
what was my business and mode of
life in Paris. I was a journalist,
doing French work for English
papers and English work for French
papers. I occupied the dignified
jKMition of Paris correspondent to
the ' Goketown Daily Press/ a flam-
ing radical diurnal journal which
was published in one of our great
industrial centres. The proprietors
insisted that I should give my
casual conversations with great
ministers of state and retail all the
gossip that I might hear at the
Imperial ball at the Tuileries. As
a matter of fact, I very rarely went
au chateau, and my visits were
limited to occasions when, the court
bemg absent from Parid, I obtained
the usual order to go over the
palace. Still I occasionally played
a game of billiards with one of the
attaches of our embassy, and I also
knew a set of journalists to whom
lists of political iaformation occa-
sionally oozed out. One of them,
being of a metaphysical tone of
mind, told me that he could ' pro-
ject himself into any political
situation, and having arrived at all
the data at command, he thought
himself justified in making details
out of his own inventive faculty.
Availing myself of these hints, I
proclaimed to my Goketown con-
stituents plans of the Emperor for
promoting the gradual growth of
constitutionaUsm and the gradual
approach of his frontiers to the
Rhine. For the Parisian journal I
edited and expounded the English
news, and occasionally wrote an
article on any subject of interest
that might arrive.
To any one familiar with the tear
and fret, the hurry and worry of a
London newspaper, the change to
Ptu-isian journalism was most de-
lightful. My paper was an even-
ing paper, and that saved the night-
work. Occasionally, if it was a
sainfs day or fgte day, and the
workmen wanted a holiday, we
omitted our usual issue, and it did
did not make much difiference.
Then the way of transacting busi-
ness was highly pleasing to the
journalistic temperament. The
hours between eleven and one are
perhaps the busiest to our nation
of shopkeepers; but to the Pari-
sians it is a time of great ease and
negligence. They take their break-
fasts at caf§s and afterwards peruse
the papers, sip h petit verre, and
ogle the women that pass by. If I
wanted to find my newspaper
manager, M. Alphonse Eock, about
midday, I knew that I had only to
go to a certain caf6 on the Boule-
vard des Italiens, and I should find
him picking his grapes or smoking
his cigarette with a glass of liqueur
by his side. It was about noon that
I thus sought mon cher ami, Al-
phonse, to see if he wanted a few
paragraphs for his evening issue, or
could give me any sparkling items
whereby the ' Goketown Daily Ex-
press' might astonish the provin-
cial mind.
' There's a girl run away from a
convent,' he said. ' They brought
a paragraph to the office last night.
You English people always like to
know any scandal about a convent'
' There's a good deal of scandal
about them at times,' I said, argu-
mentatively.
*Ah yes, perhaps, poor little
beggars 1' said Alphonse. ' I don't
think it does for us to notice this
sort of thing in our pax)er. Gatholic
opinion is, after all, very strong in
Paris.'
'Anything very sensational?' I
inquired. *Did the superior have
her whipped and kept on hread and
water ? did some gendarme, through
a grating, espy her in a dungeon ?
did some one pick up a piece of
linen torn from her nightdress with
an imploring entreaty written in
blood V
' Oh, no,' said Alphonse, laughing ;
* you will not have to write anothe r
chapter of the " Mysteries of Paris-',
It is some convent where there is a
TJie Tlirce Overheard Whispers.
large and good Ecbool, but tbey
don't say the name of it. If I re-
collect aright, it was neither novice
nor nun, but some teacher, who had
a right to go out a good deal, and
vent out one day and didn't come
back. It's rather a spiteful para-
graph, and calculated to get up a
little scandal and gossip. But the
groimd won't do for us to tread on.
But will you have the paragraph ?*
But as the paragraph did not
seem to be sensational, I declined
the offer, and was soon at work on
the funds and the Suez Canal, and,
what was a still more important
matter, inquiring whether the Em-
press really intended to put down
the chignon, a point on which Coke-
town would naturally feel very
anxious.
So I went about my usual ayoca-
tions that day, and tbat matter of
last night had quite faded away
from my mind. It was nay custom
in those days to go and hear the
band play in the gardens of the
Tuileriep. This lasted from five
to six o'clock. It was a pleasant
conclusion to the labours of the
day, and gave plenty of time to
dress for dinner afterwards. You
paid two sous for your cbair, and
tiien a seat was provided for you in
tbat open circular space in the
midst of which the band was sta-
tioned. You heard the music
better, to be sure, and you had a
seat ; but the beat was not so much
mitigated as if you were in one of
the alleys directly under the trees.
The sun was very fierce that sum-
mer day, aud I was driven to give
up my seat. I went to a tree where
I could rest myself partially, and
also peruse a programme, being, as
I call myself, 'constitutionally
tired,' which my enemies construe
as being * habitually lazy.' In the
path behind me two ladies were
pacing restlessly about Once or
twice they would pause apparently
to listen to the music, and then at
once they resumed an eager conver-
sation with which the music had
nothing to do. I confess that I
had a momentary feeling of irri-
tation against these ladies. If
people don't care for music why
do they come to musical places?
They were my own countrywomen,,
and I morosely thought that only
English people would be guilty of
such bad taste. What business
had they there chatting and jabber-
ing instead of listening to the
music ?
Paris was at this time overflow-
ing with English visitors, though
many of the French residents were
away. The Legislative sittings
were just coming to a conclusion.
But as these two Englishwomen
once more promenaded down the-
path, they hardly appeared to be
sununcr visitants belonging to any
excursion of pleasure. I had done
them an injustice. It was not mere
' chat and jabber/ as I had termed
it. On the face of at least one of them
there was an expression of terrible-
anxiety. The eye was wild, and
the arm wildly struck out almost in
an attitude of despair. As they
once more jmsscd by me, the elder
one was speaking, and I heard her
say in a compressed whisper of in-
tense emotion, ' I should break my
heart if she has elojml from tJte con-
vent ivith any Frenchman'
So saying, thty turned abruptly
from the alley, and went through a
deserted path in the direction of
the river.
CHAPTER in.
THE THIBD WHISPES.
The next night, my wife and I,
and the young attache'', were at the-
Theatre Fran9ai8, at the Palais
Eoyal, occupying a state box.
1'his was not one of the little
amenities;, as might bo supposed, of
journalism. The box had been lent
to the embassy, and the embassy
had given it to the attachd, and the
attache had placed it at our dis-
posal, subject to the pleasant condi-
tion of his own excellent company.
It was a most delicious box, such
as you often get in Paris, but never
in London. The London box re-
treats into bareness, ugliness, and
shadow ; but behind the sittings in
this box there was a perfect minia-
ture little dmwing-room— a salon,
cosy with couches and glittering
with mirrors, where any number of
The Ukree Overheard Whimpers.
one's friends might come romid
and chat between the acts.
The parterre was quite filled^ not,
as in the Lcodon pit, with a plen-
tiful sprinkling of women and
children, but with a critical au-
dience of staid men, including,
doubtless, a troop of daquenrs ; but,
never theless, sure to give even taally
a clear discerning verdict on the
merits of a new piece. It was a
great night at the Fran^ais. There
was a new piece by an eminent
author, and this was also the debut
of a new pupiL Consequently, the
house was completely filled, and
M. Alphonse Kock and his backers
were there in great force that
nighi
The actress was a great success ;
she was one who, all her indus-
trious and innocent life, had been
working for and looking forward to
this nighi The piece was so good
that in a very brief time it was pla-
giarized for the London and New
York stage.
In the interval between the third
and fourth acts, I had taken up
my loi^nette and glanced through
the bouse, and in the stage-box I
saw the aristocratic young fellow
who had been talking with the
pretty English singing-girl at the
iSalle d'Artois.
That had been on the Monday
m'ght. On the Tuesday night we
had been out to dinner as I had
mentioned. On Wednesday I had
been concocting my lucubrations
for the Coketown daily paper, which
heard 'from our own correspon-
dent' (great emphasis on the ou^n),
and to-day we were having this
dramatic treat at the FranQais.
'Do you know,' I said to the
attach^ 'who that man is in the
upper stage-box opposite, with the
bouquet, which 1 suppose he de-
signs for Mademoiselle Reine T
' Vary likely,' returned my diplo-
matic friend. 'Papillon will be
quite in love with Mademoiselle
!Reine. He's a terrible fellow, they
say. Would you li ke to know him ?'
he continued. 'I can introduce
you presently. I shall meet him at
supper on the boulevards.'
•Who is ho?* I said.
'Don't you know him? he be-
longs to the Jockey Club, and is
quite a great man just now. His
feither made all his money on the
Bourse ; but he is aristocratic-look-
ing enough for the Faubourg St
Germain.'
' He is one of the Imperialist lot,
then, I suppose ; a new man and a
rich?'
' Oh yes, he is rich enough, if he
doesn^t gamble it all away. He has
got money atid his wife has money.'
' You don't mean to tell me that
that young fellow is married ?'
' Oh yes, he is. But when his
wife has had a month or two at
Paris he sends her home into Nor-
mandy, and stays on as a bachelor.
Lots of men do that Paris is so ex-
pensive that they cut the Reason
down as much as they can.*
' Is he a nice follow ?'
' Nice enough, according to Paris
notions; but not very nice accord-
ing to your English notions. A
selfish lot, 1 expect Very gentle-
manly, but all on the surface, like
most of them.'
I am very punctual and domestic
as a rule, but having seen this
young fellow under such very dif-
ferent circumstances the other
night, I felt a curiosity to meet
him. I accordingly accepted the
attache's offer to go with him to
the supper at the Maison Dorce.
I put my wife safely into the car-
riage which wo had waiting for us,
and strolled with my friend, the
Honourable Mr. R , along the
boulevards to the cafe where we
should meet Papillon. There were
one or two men from the Jockey
Club there, the successful drama-
tist of the evening, and the attache
with some diplomatic friends, who
relieved the labours of the chancel-
lerio with social relaxation at the
Maison Dor(§e.
The supper was pleasant enough,
as little Parisian suppers always are.
But it is unnecessary that I should
speak of it unless in reference to our
gay young friend, Monsieur Papil-
lon.
I was introduced to him, and he
received me with the utmost cr/*-
prcssement. His smile and his shrug
were of the stereotyped Parisian
character. I acknowledged, how-
8
Tlie Three Overheard Whi$pers.
ever, that his handsome fi&ce, his
rich complexion, and his kindling
eye would very probably make him
a lady-killer, and his slightly-broken
English speech, which on the whole
he spoke exceedingly well, and his
foreign accent would prove little
hindrance to his killing English
ladies. It was easy to see, from the
little he said in conversation, that
he was devoted to pleasure and had
an utter abnegation of all principle.
And so much is this the ordinary
state of things in Paris, that I have
sometitues wondered whether it
might not be for the ultimate good
of the world that Paris might be
held beneath the Atlantic Ocean for
a quarter of an hour.
Monsieur Papillon stared rather
hard at me, as if haunted by some
recollection of my face, but appa-
rently he could not identify it I
had a momentary thought of re-
minding him of the Salle d'Artois;
but, less from any reasonings on the
subject than from an instinct, I
mentally decided that it would be
better not to do so.
He was certainly the most juve-
nile and joyous of Benedicts, and
wore his married chains as lightly
as if they were roses. He made one
or two jocular allusions to 'madame
ma femme,' stowed away safely in the
depitftment of Calvados. As supper
became prolonged, Monsieur Papil-
lon said he would send away his
carriage. Presently he told one of
the waiters to send his servant in
to him. At once a rather ill-look-
ing fellow entered, whom I imme-
diately recognised as having seen
the other night amusing himself
with the coachman while the car-
riage was waiting in that dark by-
street in Les Ttrnes,
Monsieur Papillon beckoned the
man to him and spoke quietly a few
words, in that quiet subdued tone
in which people speak to servants
when they do not wish to attract
attention or to disturb company.
Now it so happened that I sat next
but one to this gentleman, my diplo-
matic young friend being interposed
between us. I confess that I leaned
back in my chair, and using him, as
£Ar as I could, as a screen, I sought
to make out acythlDg he might be
saying. The attach^ spoke to me,
and I gave him a mechanical an-
swer. I strained every nerve to
hear what I could of that whispened
con ver^tion. At last, slightly rais-
ing his voice, but without departing
from a whiBper, he said~
' Remember— the Maisoa DupofU at
F<mtainUeau*
Soon after I departed. The fun
of the party was growing too fiut
and furious for me. I was very
married, and not able to regard con-
nubial ties so slightly as that but-
terfly Papillon. It was a point of
minor morals with me that I should
get to bed by midnight. At mid-
night also the Salle d Artois dosed.
Somehow there was an impulae on
my mind that I would go and sur-
vey the ground and see what the
pretty English singer was doing
with herself.
A voiture de remi&e took me
quickly, and I arrived at the sub-
urban place of amusement a good
twenty minutes before it dosed.
But the company was thinning, and
in a moment I saw that the princi-
pal person I sought was not there.
I took some re&eshment, and then
tried, not unsuccessfully, to imitate
the ways of thoEe people who make
a point of maintaining friendly re-
lations with waiters and proprietors,
in the caf6s they frequent.
'Had mademoiselle, the pretty
Englishwoman, been singing that
night?'
* Yes, but she was gone. She was
gone at eleven hours.'
' Would she be there to-morrow
nighty
'No — this was her last night. Her
engagement was terminated.'
' How was that?' I asked next
' She sang very nicely. Did not
monsieur the proprietor think
so?'
* Yes, certainly, she did sing very
well — for an Englishwoman. But
the public required novelties, and it
did not do to keep the same singer
long before them.'
' Had she been there very long ?'
' Not very long.'
Here the man went away, and to
ray mind he did not seem to care to
discuss the merits of the young lady
The Three Overheard Whispers.
vrho had jtist passed away from his
employ.
That night I looked amid the
contents of the parcel which M.
Kock had sent me from the office
for the paragraph to which he had
referred, bat I could not find it.
CHAPTEB IV.
IN THB F0B£Sr OF FONTAINBLBAU.
The next morning while I was
dressing I took a sheet of paper
and wrote down the three whispers
which I had overheard in the coarse
of the last three days.
They were, of coarse—
(a) * Oh no, no. It cannot he until
Friday.*
(b) ' Ishouldhrtak my heart ifsTie
has doped from the convent with any
Frenchman.'
(c) ' Bememher — the Maison Ihir
pont at ForUainhUau*
The corioos notion had somehow
wrought itself into my mind that it
was possible that these three oyer-
heard whispers might stand in a
certain relation and connection to
each other.
It was just possible, bat the
chances were atterly against the
truth of such a theory. There was
indeed a certain speciousness in the
idea. It might not be difficult to
invent a uunework of circum-
stances into which these three
whispers nught be tesselated and
inwrought But it was much more
eas^ to suppose that the different
whispers belonged to different sets
of circumstances standing in no sort
of connection to each other. Of
course, on any doctrine of chances,
the odds were tremendously against
the theory of any such correlation
as I was supposing. Taking the
three sentences in their chronologi-
cal consecutiveness, what on earth
could a Friday have to do with an
elopement from a convent, and what
on earth could an elopement from a
convent have to do with any parti-
cular locality at Fontainbleau?
And how extremely unlikely it must
be that a gay, frivolous, and not
over-reputable place like the Salle
d'Artois could stand in auy sort of
connection with the staid solemnity
of a convent ! I had indeed, it is true,
certain information, beyond these
whispers which might have a pos-
sible connection with their subject-
matter. There had certainly been
an escape from a convent Here
Kock's newspaper paragraph pos-
sibly corroborated and identified the
second whisper. But I could not
see in what possible connection the
remark (b) could stand to (a) and
f c). It was possible that (a) and
(c) might stand in a definite rela-
tionship. The chances of a coinci-
dence between the two were immea-
surably better than the chances of
a coincidence between the three.
The existence of that charming gen-
tleman Monsieur Papillon was a con-
necting link between the twa Was
it also possible that his existence
could be adumbrated in the second
whisper? i.e., *1 should break my
heart if she has eloped from the
convent with a Frenchman.' And
now the subject, which had been
gradually growing on my mind,
made me feel quite hot and feverish.
It seemed to me that some woeful
drama was being enacted that day
in which, quite involuntarily, I was
called upon to play aprincipisdpart.
And this very day, of which the
golden moments were slipping away
so fast, was Friday, the day on
which something was to happen,
the scene of which was laid at Fon-
tainbleau. I flung down impatiently
a set of numbers, which nad just
come in by post, of the ' Coketown
Daily Press,' although they con-
tained some choice examples of my
most careful observations and rear
sonings in politics.
' There is sometimes,' I said to
my wife, 'a destiny in the over-
hearing of whispers. Do you re-
member the cranes of Ibycus ?'
But my wife did not recollect the
cranes of Ibycus.
' Ibycus,' I said, ' was a poet, who,
travelling through a wild country,
fell in company with two evilly-dis-
posed men, who set upon him to rob
and murder him, in which design
they succeeded only too well The
dying poet looked around for suc-
cour, but saw nothing but some
cranes hovering in the air. " Oh !
ye cranes," he said, " avenge Ibycus !"
10
The Three (herheard WhUpen.
A month or two later his two mur-
derers were in an open-air theatre,
and some cranes were Tisible not
far ofiF. "Behold," whispered one
man to another, "the cranes of
Ibycns!'* Now this remark was
overheard. Ibycns was bound to
this city, and there was surprise and
consternation that he had not
arrived. It was manifest that these
two meo, whose physiognomy was
jwobably hardly in their fovour,
knew something about Ibycus. They
were seized, examined separately,
and the truth coming out, were both
executed. Now these providential
cranes brought murderers to jus-
tice. But it is manifest, my dear,
timt the casual overhearing of a
speech was the moving cause of the
discovery, though the cranes have
always absorbed the credit'
' Well,' said my wife, ' your
overheard whispers gave a time,
which is to>day, and a locality,
which is Fontainbleau. There may
be something worse than murder
going on. Why don't you go down
to Fontainbleau to-day ?'
I was astonished at the direct
simplicity of this suggestion, which
had not occurred to my mind.
' Because,' I answered, * I don't
see how a convent can have anything
to do with Friday or with Fontain-
bleau.'
'But I thought you gentlemen,
if you had a lot of data, did not
mind having an x in it, but sought
to solve its value in an equation.'
This was really clever in the
wife, and I thought there was some-
thing clever in the notion. Still I
was by no means prepared to fling
away a day on spec and make per-
chance a bootless excursion. * But
don't wait dinner,* was my uUima-
tum, ' for after all I might go down
to Fontainbleau.'
I presently gained the knifeboard
of the Courbevoie omnibus and took
three sous' worth of danger down to
the Louvre. Then I continued to
walk down the Rue Ilivoli, bethink-
ing myself that it was all in the di-
rection of the rail way station whence
I must start for Fontainbleau.
But how astonished I was when,
just as I had gained the beautiful
tower of St. Jacques, I came upon
the very two women who had so
greatly interested me in the garden
of the Tuileries the day before, yes-
terday.
Without the delay of a second I
advanced to them and took off my
hat. I turned to the elder one, who
still had evident marks of grief and
agitation on her countenance, and
said —
'Madam, will you allow me to
speak to you for a few minutes on a
very important matter?'
She gave a little shriek. ' It must
be about Clara, Mrs. Bums. Oh,
sir, tell me where is my daughter?*
I asked them if they would step
across the road, and enter into the
little endofiure around the Tower.
We sat down on one of the pleasant
benches close by Pascal's statue.
The air was scented with flowers^
the little children were playing
about with their bonnes, and there-
was the fountain's musical ripple.
'Is your daughter,' I asked, 'a
tall, handsome girl — sings well —
has fair hair and complexion, but
dark eyes—about nineteen ?'
' It must be she. It is the yery
same. Oh, sir I where is she ?'
But I was phlegmatically obliged
to say that I had not the least idea
of her whereabouts.
They were so downcast at thig
that I ventured to explain that I
thought it possible we might be put
on the right track to find her. Then
I soon succeeded in getting their
little story from them.
The elder lady was the widow of
a London merchant, who, having
always kept up a costly and luxurious
establishment, had left his family
only poorly off, owing to a great de-
preciation in the value of his pro*
perty. There were several daughters,,
and it was necesFsry that at least
one or two of them should become
governesses, which was hard ux)on
girls who were accustomed to a gay,,
and rather fast life. Mrs. Bums, an
Anglo-Parisian friend of Mrs. Broad-
hurst's, had suggested to her that
her daughter should enter a Do-
minican convent, where a school was
kept, on what are called in England
'mutual terms.' The young lady
was to give lessons in English, and
receive some lessons in French.
TJie Three Overheard Whiq>€r8.
11
Boafd and lodging were to be pro-
vided for her, but no stipend was to
be given. After a time Miss Clara
Broadhnrst grew exceedingly dis-
satisfied with her position. The
early hoars and the plain fare of
the eonvent did not suit her. She
had a great notion that she deserved
a stipend. She had also a great
notion that she had better go upon
the stage, or that she might do well
as a singer at public ccmcerts. Al-
though the living at the convent
was so plain, and the rules so strin-
gent. Miss Broadhurst was not called
upon in any degree to be treated as
a Roman Catholic inmate would be
treated; and all her school work
being finished in the morning, she
had full range of liberty between
the early dinner and the early tea.
There appeared to be no doubt but
a great deal of this time was spent
in the Bois de Boulogne. It ap-
peared that she had made several
undesirable acquaintances in Paris,
in the case of English and French
ladies against whom Mrs. Bums
could not actually allege anything,
but of whom she disapproved as
companions of the daughter of her
friend. Latterly Miss Broadhurst
had been dropping hints to her
mother that she had an opening in
life much more to her taste than
teaching in a French convent. Then
her letters grew rarer, and then
they ceased. Later still she dis-
appeared from the convent. She
hod gone out one afternoon as usual,
and had never come back. It had
evidently been a step studiously
contemplated, for all her clothing
and effects, for some days past, had
gradually been in course of removal.
[I may here state, what subse-
quently transpired— that she had
obtained an engagement to sing at
the Salle d'Artois. I was never
able rightly to make out whether
she had formed the acquaintance of
Monsieur Fapillon previous to or
during this musical engagement,
but have reason to suspect that the
former was the case.]
Mrs. Broadhurst had immediately
been telegraphed for by her friend
Mr& Bums to come to Fans ; and
in a state almost of distraction she
had been making inquiries every-
where in Paris about her daughter^
but had not hitherto met with any
success in the search.
Such is a brief outline of the
hurried story which they told me,
and they now looked impatiently
towards me to see what consolation
or guidance I could offer them. My
own mind was in a state of utter
incertitude. I was uncertain even
on the question of identification —
whether the girl I had seen was
really the Clara Broadhurst who
was missing. But here th^ were
positive, and would allow no ex-
pression of doubt. I then told my
trembling and astonished listeners
that, assuming the identity, I knew
that ti>eir Clara was intimate, and
apparently deeply in love with a.
Frenchman; that I had heard her
mention this present Friday to him
in a way that looked like an assigna-
tion with him ; that I know that on
this very day her engagement tO'
sing in public terminated; and I
also knew that on this very day the
Frenchman was going down to Fon-
tainbleau. The almost irresistible
inference was that she was going to
accompany him to that place. 1
also told them that it was my in-
tention to go to Fontainbleau that
very day ; but I did not think it
necessary to £ay that I was going
there simply on account of the
young lady unknown, for then they
might be building still higher ex-
pectations that might prove falla-
cious. I discovered that if we moved
off at once we should be in time for
as early a train as Monsieur Papillon
was at all likely to take. We caught
our train, and in about three quarters
of an hour I and my two sudden
and unexpected companions arrived
at Fontainbleau.
The reader will probably recollect
that long straight road, with its
rows of straight trees, between the
station and the town of Fontain-
bleau. We looked eagerly to see
who might be our companions in
the train ; but no one whom 1 could
recognize alighted at the station.
When we got into the town, and had
alighted at an ugly-looking hotel, I
persuaded them to have some re-
freshment, and I endeavoured to
calm Mrs. Broadhuxst's intense
12
The Three Overheard WhUpers.
nervotis excitement. Then I lighted
A cigar, and strolled about, settling
our plan of operations. My first
object was to discover where the
Maison Dnpont might happen to
be. I easily ascertained that it was
•a very respectable boarding-house,
kept by M. Dupont, a respectable
•and responsible man, situated about
twenty minutes' ride from the town,
•on the verge of the forest. Find-
dDg that some hours must elapse
before the arrival of the next train,
I persuaded them to visit the palace
«iid grounds; showed them the spot
where the first Napoleon kissed the
•eagles, and took his farewell ; showed
them them the pond where the third
Napoleon tumbled topsy-turvy
•among the great carp ; pointed out
the Empresses gondola, which I be-
lieved was the very same that Lord
Byron had used at Venice, and, in
fact, exhausted all my little store
of Napoleonic reminiscences. The
ladies, however, were hardly in a
state of mind that permitted them
to do justice to my agreeable and
improving vein of anecdote. I
thought it best, therefore, to dismiss
all notions of sight- seeing, and con-
fine ourselves strictly to the imme-
diate business of tbe day. Mrs.
Broadhurst and I were immediately
to proceed to the Maison Dupont,
and Mrs. Bums was to return to
the station and watch for the run-
aways. It was curious how the
impression that they would arrive
had now become rooted in our
minds.
We drove leisurely to the locality
that had been indicated to me, ob-
taining glimpses of flowery spaces
and deep forest glades. When we
arrived at the Maison Dupont, we
were ushered into the pleasant
presence of Madame Dupont, and,
as I had agreed with my companion,
I took charge of this sufficiently
difficult and embarrassing business.
I asked Madame Dupont if she
had any room for any more inmates.
Madame Dupont was very full
and was expecting fresh arrivals.
Still there was one chamber im-
occupied.
Mrs. Broadhurst at once said that
she would be glad to engage the
room for herself.
Might I' ask who were the new
arrivals ? We were daily expecting
some friends of ours who were going
to sketch in the forest
She thought it was for a gentle-
man and his sister. The name was
Bertrand. Her two best bed-rooms
were taken for them, by telegraph.
They had also wanted a private
dtting-room, but she had only the
use of the public rooms to offer
them, but for the day at least they
would have these rooms pretty well
to themselves.
I will now put down in chrono-
logical order the few remarkable
events of that afternoon.
Good Mrs. Bums waited for
many anxious hours at that un-
interesting station. It had been
arranged that if they came and
proceeded anywhere else than to
the Maison Dnpont she should
follow them, and at once commu-
nicate with us by a messenger.
But if they went to the Maison
Dupont her mission was at an end,
and she was to return to the hotel,
where we would communicate with
her.
The eight o'clock train from Paris
duly arrived, and then, sure as fate,
Mrs. Burns recognised her young ac-
quaintance, Clara Broadhurst, lean-
ing on the arm of a young dandified
Frenchman.
' Why, Clara,' said the good lady,
' what brings you here, and how
d'ye do? They told me that you
had retumed to England. Didn t
you like the convent?'
' Madame,' said Clara, very
haughtily, and speaking in French,
' I am sorry that I have no time
to speak to you now. I may tell
you that I am engaged to marry
this gentleman, Monsieur Bertrand,
of Marseilles, and have come here
on a visit to some of his friends.'
The gentleman had calmly ig-
nored the stout English lady, and
was hailing a voiture. Clara made
a curtsey and swept past her. Mrs.
Bams was petrified with astonish-
ment. But she heard the word
Dupont in the direction.
When Monsieur and his interest-
ing companion arrived at tbe Maison
Dupont, they were met by the smil-
ing landlady, who told them that
Parisian Clubs, Past and Present.
la
she was so sorry that she had no
private room for them. There was
only a gentleman in a salon, and she
nnderstood that he was going almost
directly, as soon as he had done
some little business for a friend.
There was a gentleman sitting at
the window, with his hat in one
hand and that day's ' Galignani' in
the other. This individaal was the
esteemed Paris correspondent of
the ' Ck>ketown Daily Express.'
As he entered I rose from my
seat and faced him. ' Ah, Monsieur
Papillon/ I exclaimed, 'I am so
happy; what an extraordinary en-
counter! I had the pleasure of
meeting you in very agreeable com-
pany last night on the Bouleyards.'
He shook hands with me hur-
riedly and gave a forced laugh.
' Vbu8 avez tort. Monsieur, I am M.
Bertrand, of Marseilles, much at
your service. What do you say—
Papillon? it is one good joke. They
call me that because I am light-
hearted.'
' Just as you like/ I answered ;
' it is of no importance, but I don't
think our mutual friend, the Hon.
Mr. B., of the English Embassy,
would take such a liberty with
either of us as to make an intro-
duction under fiilse colours.'
I noticed that he bit his lips and
appeared greatly disgusted. His
companion turned first towards
him and then towards me her large
inquiring eyes.
* Ah, B., he is what you do call
one funny dog.'
'And so are you. Monsieur Pa-
pillon,' I answered. ' But how is
madame, your wife— and the charm-
ing little infant in Calyados?'
He changed colour very much,
and muttered a raille tonnerres. Then
he seized his companion's resisting
hand, and said, smilingly, 'I'oila
madame,'
' No, no, no,' I said, laughingly.
' That is not Madame Papillon. Un-
less I am greatly mistaken, that la
Miss Clara BroadhurstJ
She started up, almost as if shot
' Oh, sir I and do you know me ?
And is not this gentleman M. Ber-
trand, of Marseilles?'
' My child,' I answered, ' his
name is Papillon. He is a member
of the 'Jockey Club at Paris. His
place is in the north of France,
where he has left his wife.'
She cast on him a look of th&
most indignant reproach. Then
she burst into a flood of tears and
began to moan. ' Oh, what shall I
do? What shall I do? My mother,
my poor mother I Oh, I wish I had
never come to Paris ! Oh, my mother,
where are you?'
' I am here, my child,' said Mrs.
Broadhurst, and she calmly glided
from the jtetite salwi adjoining, and
folded her weeping daughter in her
arms.
When I went up to Paris a few
hours later by the night mail,
among the gentlemen in the smok-
ing compartment I recognised, with
much satisfaction, my young friend,
M. Papillon. He was veiy affable
and ofiered me a light
Miss Clara Broadhurst afterwards
sang in a London concert-room.
After a very short term of profes-
sional life, however, she married a
very worthy man. I wonder, how-
ever, whether he— or indeed either
of them — altogether knew about
the curious incident of the Three
Overheard Whis'pers,
PAKISIAN CLUBS, PAST AND PRESENT.
CLUBS of some sort or other have
existed all the world over, from
the earliest times: for, as Garlyle
says, fellowship ' is sweet and indis-
pensable to man.' For all sorts of
objects have clubs, historical and
now existing, been founded. The
modern Parisian club, however, is a
very difierent affair from the Parisian
clubs of other days, and from those
clubs brought to perfection— the
clubs of London. The word ' clubs,'
indeed— borrowed by the French
from the English— had a dark signi-
ficance in the days of revolutionary
Paris. In the fiery days of '9 a
14
Parisian Clubs, Past and Present
National Assemblies vrere Dot quick
enough to feci and express popular
opinion, or to readily feel the pulses
of the popular enthusiasm ; even the
press, with hot-blooded OamilJe
Desmoulins aiding, though fierce,
was indistinct. The real political
life of '92 in Paris was centred in
the clubs ; the whole public belonged
to one another; clubs grew like
fabled dragons' teeth, each section
of revolutionized Paris rejoicing in
more than one. Some inspired
patriots, coming up to the metro-
polis from remote but hotly sans-
cullotic Brittany, invented the poli-
tical revolutionary club. They first
constituted themselves a committee
* of action ;' then they founded, from
that, the 'Breton Club:' this soon
became more than Breton, was joined
l>y patriot deputies from all parts,
was re-christened, first, ' French Bo-
volution Club/ then ' Club of tho
Friends of the Constitution.' Finally,
these same gregarious Breton depu-
ties, having rented the old despoiled
convent of the Jacobin monks in
Rue St. Honor6— now, unhappily,
a thing of memory only^ for the old
edifice has gone long ago — and
taking their name from their place
of meeting, became the ' Club of the
Jacobins ' — is it not world re-
nowned ? ' Sea-green ' Bobespierre
gave cold counsel from its tribone ;
there sparkled fiashing Desmoulins,
and roared, lionlike, Danton, and
croaked ill-fibvoured and squalid
Marat, Friend of the People. And
here, in the Club of tho Jacobins,
was bom the bloody revolution
which followed on the heels of the
good-natured revolution. Others
followed the example — there sprang
up ' Constitutionar clubs for the
party of Mirabeau, ' Boyalist' clubs
of blind and chivalrous noblesse,
' Feuillans' Club/ of mild Girondists,
and ' Club of the Cordeliers/ out-
Heroding in its democratic fury the
Jacobin Herod itself; then there
was the refined, philosophic, mode-
rate, doomed ' Girondist,' with the
fine inspired face of Madame Boland
beaming over the table. Soon the
Club of the Jacobins becomes, as
Louis XIY. was, the State : strange
heretical successor to the magnifi-
cent monarch! And now it expands
and sits high on the 'Mountain/ and
from aloft frowns down ujxm and
rules the Convention.
With the Bevolution, however, all
these, good and bad, vanished. In
the years of tho Consulaite and the
Empire, other clubs sprang into ex-
istence— military clulis, with mar-
shals of Franco as presidents ; lite-
rary clnbs, which listened intent
upon the disoour^iogsof Madame de
Stacl; political clubs had, for the
most part, ceased to be. But poli-
tical clubs grew up again — ^but in
tho dark— towards the close of tlie
Restoration epoch, when Charles X.
became stubborn. Bourbon-like, and
Polignao refused to yield; they
fought their way into light in iS^o,
and drove tho royal ' stoopid ' out
of France. In the time of Louis
Philippe, the patriarch and ' father
of his people/ an old-fashioned stylo
of clubs resuscitated, budded, and
developed ; the reign of light, ght-
tcring French pleasure began once
more; the clubs were now social,
pleasure-loving, game-playing, ab-
sinthe-drinking, and concert-giving ;
and these are the features of the
modem Parisian club, as contrasted
with those of history.
If there be now any distinctly
political clubs existing in Paris, they
are not publicly known. If known,
such would not be allowed by Go-
vernment, especially if hostile to
Government; and there would
scarcely be a raison d'etre for clubs
favourable to Government Then,
the French have really very little to
complain of in Napoleon III. ; there
is certainly no palpably grievous
tyranny; there is no Jong despairing
waU for ' bread/ as there was in the
days of the first Revolution ; people
generally have a very fair share of
justice done them la the legislature
and the courts of justice ; taxes are
lighter than in many continental
countries; the press talks with a
plainness which surprises one who
has been told of the repressive ten-
dencies of the official censorship ; the
country is at peace, is materially
prosperous, and physically robust ;
the opposition journals have up-hill
work in finding fault with the Em-
pire ; and now the Empire appeals
confidently and without fear to the
Parisian Ohhiy Faat and Present,
15
people, asking— without a doabt as
to the result— that they will send up
a new Legislature as faithful to the
dynasty as the old And when there
is no really deep national grievance,
there is no raismi d'etre for clubs of
the politi<»d-fiery stamp of the Jaco-
bins and Cordeliers — ^no food for
them to feed and prosper on.
There may yet exist, for all the
outer world knows, shrewd night-
shrouded organizations, having a
kinship with the political clubs of
history ; but certain it is that such,
if any there be, have not a very ex-
tensive membership, nor great popu-
lar influence. The partisans of Count
Quixote Chambord may meet in
damask drawing-rooms and conspire
to restore the blue Bourbon blood,
in the crumbling ch&teanz some-
wh^e out in the provinces; Count
de Paris may just possibly have
emissaries in Paris, concocting
schemes with messieurs the consti-
tutional monarohists; Favre and
Simon may make midnight speeches,
and have a sort of freemasonry
among the republicans, with a wire
reaching to volcanic St Antoine —
but none of these are probable ; and
if they do exist, their hope must
indeed be feeble of overturning a
regime which is ever watchful, is
moderate from policy, and is con-
trolled by so acute a mind aa that of
its present head.
The social clubs which have been
alluded to are, however, in the full
blaze of crowded and glittering
prosperity. They are certainly bril-
mnlC certainly fascinating; one can
well see that the attractions which
they offer are irresistible to the
pleasure-loving French bachelor, or
to the Benedict to whom home, alas!
offers no allurements.
It is a place to meet and chat in ;
to gossip in, after male fashion — ^a
gossip very different from that of
women, by the way, neither so sense-
less nor so harmless — to read the
papers in, where to laugh over the
cartoons of the ' Journal Amusant '
and the dry piquancy of * Charivari/
the last critique, on Nilsson or Patti
in 'Figaro;' where to indulge in
the post-prandian cafS-au-oognac or
absinthe, and the other rank poisons
in which the Parisian delights, de-
spite the subsequent dyspepsia;
where there are billiard tables and
bagatelle for all, and where, above
all, the genius of play reigns para-
mount.
Let us enter one — the refined and
classical ' Society des Beaux Arts :'
it has a high-sounding sesthetic
name enough, but is in reality
nothing more nor less than a club of
'men of the world.' As you pass in
you observe the self-styled lovers of
'the arts' going and coming, look-
ing, however, as little like artists or
connoisseurs of art as possible.
Mostly they are flashy -looking,
heavy - whiskered, shining -haired,
well-dressed * swells,' with a gam-
bling devil-may-care air about them ;
some substantial old gentlemen in
gold spectacles and wigs; some
greenish youths who have prema-
turely donned an air imitative of
fashionable manhood. The club is
dazzlingly lighted without and
within. It has pillars at the en-
trance, Parthenon-like ; rather over-
graceful plaster statues of the Muses
stand in the vestibule, intended for
ornament— but somehow provoca-
tive of mirth. Within the wide,
Mgli door is a spacious hall, with
mosaic floor, and resplendent from
many gas globes ; here and there a
statue, fresco, bas-relief; the white
X>anellings all a-gilt, an ornamenta-
tion less tasteful than obtrusive.
Directly before you is a broad,
richly-carpeted oaken staircase lead-
ing to a platform, where two women
in fiiultlessly stiff white caps receive
the tickets of members or recognise
them as they enter, and take chaise
of the superfluities— the canes, hats,
and umbrellas. The staircase merges
into two, ascending to the right and
to the left, and these conduct to the
various saloons of the club.
The rooms are hardly less bril-
liant, the furniture hardly less
sumptuous, than the royal apart-
ments of the Tuileries ; light every-
where blazes, dazzling; every
imaginable luxury is provided —
those numerous Utile things which
together furnish the indolent with
contentment. Great roaring flres
mount up in the spacious fireplaces
— too much heat, making the in-
mates drowsy, inviting to a doze on
16
Pcaisian Clubs, Past and Present.
the seighbouring laxurioos sofas.
In some rooms are books, maga-
zines, and files of newsnapers ; in
others billiard tables ana bagatelle
boards ; in others caf6 and restatmmt
establishments; in nearly all card-
tables, the cards constantly shnfiBing
and patting, flanked by files of golden
napoleons.
The most beaatifal of these apart-
ments, howeyer, is the concert hall,
which, elaborately frescoed on domo
and wall, has a pretty covered gal-
lery, supported by graceful pillars,
and cosy seats disposed in semi-
circles and rising behind each other.
A tasteful stage occupies the front,
embellished with a grand piano.
Here, twice a month, a classical
concert is given by musicians of
jiote ; to this the club members are
admitted free, and each is entitled
to two additional tickets for his lady
friends. At the concerts, messieurs
of the club occupy the gallery, the
ladies the 'parterre.' You observe
one thing at the concerts which
hardly confirms your idea of the
great gallantry of 'our neighbour
the Gaul.* The club members in
the gallery, almost every one, are
provided with opera-glasses ; and a
battery of these goggle^yed instru-
ments is levelled throughout the
evening at the pretty young mesde-
moifelles below. You observe that
this frightfully impudent and bare-
faced staring does not cease as a
habit with age ; for yonder is a dan-
dified old fellow, who, you are very
certain, must be an octogenarian,
constantly ogling through a much
bejewelled lorgnette the youngest
and prettiest laidies in the hall, and
evidently enjoying the pastime— for
he is busy pointing out his especial
beauties to a companion a quarter
of his own age. These club con-
certs are, notwithstanding, popular,
and are always crowded; the ex-
pense is paid from the club trea-
sury. The elite of Paris are often
present, and the fashion is to dress
as much as if it were a State repre-
sentation at the Opera.
But the great attraction of the
modem Parisian club is unques-
tionably the gaming, which is open,
and woll-m'gh an universal habit
The most frequent hahituSs of the
club are men, either of dissipated
tastes with plenty of money, which
they had ratber spend over the card-
table than in any other way; or else
men of desperate fortunes, who
would, if possible, retrieve them; or,
too often, silly young fellows who
can discover no higher ambition
than to be the boon companions of
'swells,' and to become 'swells'
themselves. There is gambling at
the billiard-tables, but the great
attraction is the card-table. You
not seldom see white-headed, re-
spectable-looking old 'gentlemen'
standing over uie card-table en-
couraging and urging on mere
beardless boys, applauding their
successful ventures, and laughing
gaUy at their feverish suspense.
The victim of the mariage de oanve-
nance finds here tiie pleasure which
home denies to him. Men go to the
gaming-table and ruin themselves,
because, instead of their choosing
their own wives, their fiBtthers did it
for them. The Parisian club, far
less innocent and healthy than those
of Pall Mall, is one only of the
noxious products of that bad rule
of French society which forbids the
free association of young men and
women of equal rank ; hence it is
that the former are driven to spend
their evenings at the club card-
tables, or lounging in the caf^s, or
worse, if anything, in the society of
women at meeting whom in the
street their sisters would blush with
iHstinctive horror and womanly dis-
gust
G. M. T.
>iiSi!^^5^
17
SOCIAL SUPERSTITIONS.
CON vre shall have no social
snperstitioiis, I suppose. They
are destined, no doubt, to disap-
pear with political superstitions
and religions superstitions — or
what people axe jpleased to con-
sider as such — in the natural
course of the abolition of most
things. How many have gone in
our own time ! — or in a time within
the experience of men and women
still among us, and fiBmiliar at least
in a reflected light
The superstitions to which I
refer, are not yery important per-
haps, but they mark changes in
manners, and changes in manners
mark changes in a great many
other things. A great number
have gone, as I have said. The
superstitious obserrance of the
custom of getting drunk after
dinner, for instance, is among
the disappearances. A great many
people still get drunk, it must be
confessed; but they usually pay
the homage which intoxication
owes to sobriety, and dei^y or con-
ceal the fact There used to be a superstition among a certain class of fine
gentlemen that it was ' bad form ' — or whatever was the equivalent phrase
of the period— to be aHe to do anything for one*s-self. and that a state of
utter apathy and indifference to things in general was the surest mark
of good breeding. There may be such men about now, but they are very
carefully cut, I should think ; and a negative condition of mind and body
would certainly not in these days be considered a sign of Jxm tan. There
was a superstition once in favour of snuff-taking. Long since the days
when a snuff-box was as necessary an appendage to a gentleman as his
shoe .buckles, the habit of putting it to use was still general, and it has
disappeared only in the present generation. During the rule of snuff,
smobng was the exception ; and i£ough the latter had many votaries, the
* vice ' was a secret one— to be indulged only in out-of-the-way places. A
stable or a harness room was thought quite good enough, and the tap- room
at a low tavern most appropriate. When rooms were set apart for the
Surpose at clubs they were always the worst in the house ; and up to so
kte a period as to be called the other day there was no smoking-room at
one of the leading clubs in London. Now, not only are smokers in clubs
luxuriously provided, but every house of sufficient size and pretensions—
in the country at any rate — ^has an apartment available for tne weed ; and
in connexion with billiards ladies endure it with a charming docility —
developed in some cases, so scandal declares, into the most practical ex-
pression of tolerance. In the old times only tiie most hardened offenders
would venture to smoke in the streets or public places. I need scarcely
«ay how this superstition has been disposed of in these days, when Boyal
Princes lead the way, and a Boyal Duke may be seen on most mornings on
Constitution Hill in company with an enormous regalia.
There was a superstition prevalent for many years that a gentleman
VOL. XVI.— MO. xci. 0
18
Social Suj^erstitions.
conld not be properly coBtnmed
unless half strangled in an enormons
stock. This machine was Tronder-
fully and fearfully made, with a
slight pretence of elasticity, but in-
tended evidently to keep the head
up, and promote an appearance of
dignified apoplexy in the wearer —
with the occasional effect of a diver-
gence from appearance into reality.
The custom originated through the
' most finished gentleman in Eorope '
not being proud of his neck ; ana it
became so rigorous as to ruin any
man who refused to follow it. There
is only one known instance of such
hardihood, however, and that is in
the case of Lord Byron. It is
generally supposed that society set
its face against the poet because he
was supposed to be an immoral
man, to ill-treat his wife, and exhibit
a vicious tendency in his writings.
I believe nothing of the kind. Society
at the time made pets of men who
were far worse than Byron was even
supposed to be, who got on no
better with their wives, and who
set quite as vicious an example in
their lives as Byron was alleged to
set in his writings. Society cut
Byron because he turned down his
collar, and that is the whole fact of
the matter. Had he worn a stock
he would have been one of them-
selves, and they would have forgiven
him a.s they did other people.
Stocks are seldom seen noWj
except in the army, where, in a
certain but not sufficiently modified
degree, they are still the rule; at
the discretion, however, of command-
ing officers, who may allow them to
be dispensed with if they think the
relaxation necessary or desii-able.
Nobody, in fact, wears a stock in
these days unless ho is obliged to do
so, except a few fogies who cling
to the superstition as a link to
life.
' What do you think of my uncle?'
asked a man not long since of his
friend, with whom he was walking
in Pall Mall. They bad just met
the gentleman in question.
'Think of him!* was the con-
temptuous reply ; ' why he wears a
stock and buckles it behind—that's
what I think of him.'
You see by this little incident the
kind of feeling that stocks excite in-
the present day.
If there are superstitions among
men there are superstitions among
women, you may be sure, and among
the latter as among the former there
have been a great many that are now
exploded. As regards dress and
deportment fhexe was one connected
with the ideal of a lady which seems
to have no believers in these times.
A lady was supposed to be arrayed
in the plainest manner — to wear
robes of the sokiemi eolours and the
simplest cut. Aogrbody who devi-
ated from the mb wm supposed not
to be a lady ; and ilia Rraich, who
set the fashions that ■■ they do
now, w«re far in advance of fhe
Englwh in this respect. That tii»
supentikion no longer prevails Bced
scaroriy be pointed out. Tbe cfaaqge
in tbe present diractios liaa been
aceonpaiued too by some iaodeBtal
MUfMi'iaiHajai which have also cone'
to an end— or vei7 nearly aoc Out
^vaa ttat ladicB in order to attam
clegaaes in skirta mnak be eacased
in a aleei eage, abaoidty— eonsider-
iog the dcnvation of fhe wovd —
called a crinoline. Anollier was
founded upon the idea that a lady
could not appear out of doors with-
out wearing upon her head a prepos-
terous contrivance, which, had it
been discovered in the ruins of Pom-
peii, or in some such place, without
any indication of tbe use to which it
was applied, would have be^ a
mystery to succeeding ages, and
remained perhaps a puzzle to anti-
quarians up to the present time.
The thing I mean was called a
bonnet.
What a monstrosity it was ! It
stood alone in creation. Nature
never produced anything like it in
her wildest and most colonial moods.
Art could never have conceived such
an object. For the bonnet was like
oar old friepd Topsy, according to
that young person's idea of her
origin. It was never bom of tbe
fancy of any one man or woman —
' I guess it growed.' You could not
indeed resemble it to anything else.
It was not like a coalscuttle, to
which some of its varieties have
been flatteringly compared, for it
would not stand on its end^ if indeed
Social Sup&rsiUians.
19
it bad an end to stand on ; and for
similar reasons among others it conld
not be supposed to be intended for
a coffeepot^ a breadbasket, a card-
tray, a toast-rack, a mousetrap, or a
warming-pan. It was certainly not
like a hat ; for though it contained
a place where you could put part of
a head, there was nothing to indicate
— ^in the absence of previous infor-
mation— that such an uncomfortable
receptacle was meant for such a use.
The coincidence was altogether in-
sufficient You may put your head
into a bag or a portmanteau, but
nobody would guess those useful
articles to be head-dresses on that
account. The bonnet, in its ultra
days at any rate, was as shapeless a
monster as the Fieuvre, first described
by Victor Hugo, and since made
familiar to us in collections of aqua-
ria; with bows and flowers for
'feelers,' turning up in arbitrary
and unexpected places. Had we —
innocent of it ourselves— found it in
use among the Cherokee Indians, we
should have fancied it connected
with some religious rite, since it
would be difficult to suppose that
anybody would voluntarily wear
such a thing for its own sake. That
it is an exploded superstition among
civilized nations is a fact for which
everybody blessed with eyesight
ought to be grateful. The present
substitute is called by the same
name; but nobody, seeing the two
things together, would guess that
they were put to the same use. The
bonnet of the period is a charming
little decorative arrangement, which
may be quite useless as far as shelter
is concerned, but is scarcely more so
than its predecessor, which was in-
effectual against sun or rain, and
had not the excuse of being orna-
mental instead.
Another superstition of the past
was the corset. I am not quite sure
that I shall be allowed to allude to
such a subject, but must take my
chance. I will be content, however,
to observe that the garment — it can
scarcely be called a garment though ;
what am I to call it?— the article?
— the machine ? The machine will
do. It was a point of faith that this
machine was indispensable to the
female kind, or at any rate that it
ought to be, and it was worn when
not wanted as a distinction of the
sex. One need not be the oldest in-
habitant of any place to remember
these curious contrivances of which
wood or steel, and whalebone inevi-
tably, formed such important
features. Such things may exist in
the present day; but they could
never have been necessities ; for the
interesting wearers of the modified
mysteries now in use under the same
name do not seem to suffer from the
absence of their predecessors. On
the contrary, they evidently flourish
the more for the change, look a
great deal better, and must feel a
great deal better if they can feel at
all.
Among social observances which
may be classed among exploded
superstitions, I may include the cir-
culation of wedding cards and
wedding cake among the friends of
married couples. The cake went
first, and the cards are fast fallowing.
I am not quite sure that the omis-
sion in either case is an advantage.
People always liked getting the
cake, though it is a horrible thing
to eat, and the cards certainly
answered their intended purpose —
that of marking the feeling towards
oHacquaintances under new condi-
tions, and influencing them in pay-
ing congratulatory visits. Now,
under the new arrangement, half the
acquaintances of the bride and bride-
groom are uncertain whether to call
ornot; and as they are very apt to give
themselves the benefit of the doubt
which gives the least trouble, they
frequently remain upon anomalous
terms with the happy pair for an in-
definite period — determined in the
end perhaps by an accident.
The superstition which dictates
the use of cards in general inter-
course is not likely to die out. So-
ciety cannot get on without them.
But calling — where you actually
want to see the people— has been
relieved of half its horrors by the
practice of appointing certain days
for being at home, and adding the
attraction of tea, which, whether
visitors want that refreshment or
not, at least gives them something
to do. A great many people would
I»efer that these rites should be
0 a
20
Social Supenliiioni,
performed after dioner instead of
before, and it would be well to allow
them the altematiye. I dare say we
shall come to this some day. Mean-
while many take kindly to what has
been called the social treadmill,
and grind away for the fan of the
thing. It is hard perhaps to have
to drop additional cards after hav-
ing dmed at a house, and snch
visitcs de digestion are usually paid
with the kind of gratitude known
as a lively sense of benefits to
come.
Among existing superstitions that
which necessitates introdnctions at
balls in prirate houses has a great
many heterodox enemies. They are
mere matters of form, since the
persons introduced are frequently
no wiser as to one another's per-
sonality than they were before ; and
the observance has the effect of
curbing individual ardour. There
is no harm in them ; they are often
an assistance ; but they should not
be held necessary, and in a happier
state of existence I dare say they
will be dispensed with.
Among exploded superstitions
upon such occasions may be reck-
oned speeches afttr supper. Where
there is no regular supper to make
speeches after the evil naturally
cures itself; but even where there
is, the bore in question is never met
with except in offensively old-fash-
ioned society. So much the better,
say all sensible people. Speeches
after dinner, when the dinner has a
business object, of course can't be
helped, and come under a different
category.
Apropos to dinners I mav mention
a very old superstition which gave
the palm to English dinners over
all other dinners, in the world.
' Foreign kickshaws,' compared with
them, were held in contempt as un-
wholesome abominations. And an
English dinner, when well cooked, is
no doubt a very fine thing, and
better for people leading an active
life than, say, a French one, as a
continuous arran^ment. But it is
the old story still — our dinners
come from a sacred, our cooks from
a profane source. To cook an Eng-
lish dinner well a person ought to
be capable of cooking a French one.
The principles are the same, and the
ornate variations, in the latter case,
are mere matters of special attain-
ment, easily acquired from prescribed
formulae. But the popular deluskm
with the common run of oooks is,
that an English dinner, in order to
have ' no nonsense about it,* should
be essentially solid, and leave di-
gestibility an open questioD. Any
suggestion of an advance upon
these conditions is met by the re-
sponse that Mary Jane does not pro-
fess to understand foreign cookery ;
and an intimation, if she is disposed
to be candid, that she considers
' plain English ' entitled to the pre-
ference in every respect She can
never be made to understand that
food prepared in the English &shion
is not necessarily crude, comfort-
less, and injurious. Her main idea
is that everything English ought to
be substantial, that is to say, heavy ;
and in pursuance of this I have
known her send up such a thing
as suet pudding with partioulur
joints. The accompaniment is well
known in schools, where it is ac-
cepted as part of the discipline of
the establishment— but surely no-
body ever ate suet pudding as a
free agent! This is perhaps an
aggravated instance of infiEituation,
but it is quite within the compass
of common ' plain cooks,' who mi-
nister to the middle classes of so-
ciety. How the poor fare, who are
their own cooks, is a sad considera-
tion. That they eat at all is a
marvel; and it is a still greater
marvel, considering the savage cha-
racter of their meals, that they do
not drink twice as much as they
do.
The superstition which exalts bad
cookery and calls it Englicdi is less
strong than it was, and among the
educated classes is rapidly passing
away. But unhapinly the greater
part of the population are not edu-
cated—even to an appreciation of
the commonest comforts— and are
still willing victims to a delusion
unknown in any other civilized
country.
The popular delusion in the
matter of wines, which has endured
for more than a hundred years, has
a greater chance of being dispelled ;
Social Superstkions.
21
and if the mass of the wine-drink-
ing population— 80 largely increased
of late— still cling exclusively to
port and sherry, it is surely not
for want of other wines being sug-
gested eoually to their palatas and
flieir pocKets. Port is now favoured
by only two classes of persons—
the few who will pay fabulous sums
for the little that can be got of the
best kind, and the many who are
not yet influenced by the light wine
movement, and still incline them-
selves— from superstitious motives
— to any concoction called by the
name. The former need not be
converted. Their taste is entitled
to the highest respect, and I trust
that they will long enjoy the means
to gratify ii The latter are being
converted by degrees, if we may
believe in statistics; for the con-
sumption or port which comes from
Portugal has sensibly decreased of
late years, and it is not to be sup-
posed that the production of the
spurious article can have increased
in the face of the increased facilities
for obtaining the real one. The
wines of all other wine-producing
countries are now largely consnmed
in this country; and the natural
conclusion is beyond a doubt — that
the majority of habitual or occa-
casional drinkers of wine do not
drink port, while the minority drink
it in less proportion than formerly.
Sherry has made a firmer stand, and
is still considered a necessary wine,
whatever be the other wines which
find a place in the public favour.
There is a competition, too, in the
market between sherry and sherry
— that is to say, between sherry as
usually prepared for English con-
sumption, and sherry as it is in its
natural state; and other Spanish
wines which are not sherry, but
which have the same character, are
also entering the field of opposition.
The 'natural' wines, as the mer-
chants call them, have a hard fight
for it at present; for the mass of
wine drinkers undoubtedly prefer
the old fiery mixtures. But there
is a demand for the * dry ' qualities
rapidly spreading, and palates edu-
cated to these— dreadfully doctored
as they commonly are — will find
out in time that they can be better
gratified by unadulterated vintages,
or vintages which are at least not
deprived of their original character.
Between Spanish wines as they
ought to be and French wines as
they are— to say nothing of Italian,
Hungarian, and Greek, which are
making their way — the time is pro-
bably not for distant when the su-
perstition which gave exclusiveness
to port and sherry will be known
no more.
Port is associated with prejudice;
and prejudice of many kinds is
breakmg down with port. I allude
especially to English prejudice— to
be classed with superstition— in re-
ference to things continental. There
was an old belief that one English-
man was always able to beat three
Frenchmen. That delusion must
surely have exploded; and I may
mention, as a matter of personal
experience, that I once made the
experiment with only two of our
lively neighbours — and signally
failed. But the superstitious sense
of .superiority on the part of our
travelling countrymen on the Con-
tinent still prevails to a great ex-
tent; the principal exception being
the members of the gentler sex,
who have thrown off their tra-
ditional reserve in a remarkable
manner, and dash about in out-of-
doors dirersions with an afiability
which is a wonder, not to say a
scandal, and utterly confutes the
stock caricatures, which, in Paris
especially, still represent the Uonde
misses of Albion as embodiments of
prudish affectation— wearing green
veils and actual bonnets, and re-
garding the social freedom of France
as shocking, quite in the old style.
There has, to be sure, been lately
opened a rival vein of Fatire, repre-
sented in periodicals like the Kte
Parisienne, which gives the English
girl in her gushing, hatty, high-
heeled aspect, and has just begun
to understand the joke about ' the
period;' but this development is
quite recent— the blonde misse still
holds her own in the shop windows,
and it will be years before she is
accepted in her new character.
I am not quite sure that the Eng-
lish superstition as regards our re-
lations towards our lively neigh-
22
Social SuperililionB,
boms has been dissipated with
xmmixed advantage — as far as the
gentler sex is concerned. Bat it
must be admitted, that whether
throngh French or other inflaecoe,
English women— inciuding English
girls of course — dress a great deal
better than they did, and— except
when they make caricatures of them*
selves— cannot be accused of failing
to set off their beauty to the best
advantage.
The mention of dress, again, sug-
geslB that an old superstition con-
ceroing costume has just exploded.
I mean that which made it de rigueur
£qt gentlemen, unless in some kind
of uniform, to go to court in the
habits as they lived of our fore-
fathers in the middle of the reign
of George IIL The dress was both
imcomfortable and incongruous, and
nobody liked it; and the change has
at least this advantage — that it
enables a nuui to wear in the pre-
sence of his sovereign a dress of the
shape to which he is accustomed in
common life. But innovation be-
gets innovation, and now we find
certain levellers condemning the
court dress worn by ladies as a
superstition. Why, they ask, can-
not ladies go to the drawing-rooms
in mornini? dresses with high
bodies? Tliese agitators, would,
it seems, get rid of the 'feathers,
blonde-cappets, and diamonds,' and
all the rest of it, at one fell swoop,
on the ground that full dress hap-
pening in these days to be rather
scanty, ladies who go to drawing-
rooms are apt to take cold. The
agitators may depend upon it that
some stronger reason than this
must be discovered before the ladies
concerned will join the agitation,
even if such a simplification would
ever be permitted by the milliners.
// faut wnffiir pour ftre bdlt is a
social decree submitted to more
philosophically than is the fate of
most legal decrees. And if those
who wear court dresses are content
to suffer in one way, you may bo
sure that tliose who make them will
not be content to sutror in another.
So the question, I fancy, may be
safely left at rest between the two.
Among superstitions which still
survive, may be mentioned the be-
lief in some apocryphal period
known as the 'palmy days of the
drama.' When these days existed,
and what they were like, is not easy
to determine. For we find no con-
temporary evidence of their exist-
ence; it has never been handed
down to us that [people have said,
' These are the palmy days of the
drama ; I am content with the con-
dition of the stage.' On the con-
trary, from the earliest times of
which we are able to take anything
like a near view, the cry has always
been that the regular drama was
neglected whenever there were
counter attractions in the form of
French dancing girls, performing
dogs or monkeys, or even such
exhibitions oa puppet shows. No-
body seems ever to have heard of
the palmy days of the drama until
they bad passed away, and then the
praises had a suspicious appearance
of being rung for the teni]»ora acii
in !the abstract Great actors and
actresses have lived no doubt before
the Agamemnons of our own time,
and their Homers have kept their
fame aUve ; but it must be doubted
if the drama— that is to say the
regular drama— has had such great
days for its own sake as has been
made out The days of which we
liave the most distinct idea are those
comparatively early in the century,
when enthusiastic ; people used to
go to the pit door of iJrury Lane,
and wait from two o'clock in the
day to see Mrs. Sid dons, or the
Kembles, and later still the elder
Keon— buy a bill in the street, and
6tru£rg1e for the attainment of three
hours' intellectual ecstacy. One
may suppose that the re\vard was
greater than could be gained now
by a similar process— supposing the
process to be necessary; but the
fact was due to exceptional circum-
stances ; and if the public taste was
high, it hod not so many invitations
as it has in the present day to be-
come low. If there were better
actors there were certainly worse,
and the same may be said of the
pieces which obtained popularity —
the inferior class of which would
not be listened to now, as has been
proved by occasional experiments.
There is a larger public in these
Social SuperstUiom,
23
ixmeB; but even making allowance
for the fact, a larger proportionate
amount of money is spent upon the
drama than used to be spent, dra-
matic authors make larger profits,
• and dramatic performers are better
paid. It is true that plays of a low
class, and players of a low class,
aometimes succeed, as well as plays*
and players of a higher class— some-
limes better, ind^, when a tho«
zoagh hit is made. But this has
always been the case ; and they do
not fail because they are of a high
^slass. When such pieces are un-
.sncoessfal it is because there is
something wrong about them —
because they are cumbrous, dull,
and unfitted for the stage. A great
deal of fftlse sentiment would once
|>as8 for real, and a great many
atuations which we have discoTered
to be claptrap were accepted by our
lorefathers in good faith. On the
whole, judging by the number of
theatres we have, and the number
of pieces that fill them, and the
standard of excellence demanded by
most of the audiences, it must be a
mistake to suppose that the drama
has declined or is declining. There-
fQxe the belief in the palmy days, as
compared with our own — which,
however, is far weaker than it was
— ^must be ranked among the super-
stitions.
An alleged cause of the supposed
decline of the drama is the late
hour at which most of us dine. It has
become later and later in the course
of the last few years, and we seem
rapidly arriving at the fsishionable
pomt said to have been attained by
a late American president, who was
such a great man that he never took
his dinner until the next day ! But
it is made later, and worse than
later because less certain, by a su-
perstitious custom which prevails
of the host fixing one time and
the guests assembling at another.
The inconvenience was pointed out
the other day in a morning journal,
and it is one which decidedly de-
mands reform. Everybody under-
stands that a little grace is allowed
beyond the quarter-past seven,
quarter to eight, or eight, set down
in the invitation ; but nobody knows
exactly how much, tmless well ac-
quainted with the custom of the
particular house. And as few
choose to incur the embarrassment
of being too early, a groat many
ran the hazard of being too late.
The consequence is an amount of
confusion and annoyance which is
felt equally by host and guest
There is only one way of destroy-
ing this monstrous delusicm, and
saving the enormous amount of
time and temper which it wastes
in the course of the year; that is,
to issue invitations for the exact
hour at which the party is expected
to be assembled, with a special pro-
vision as to punctuality until the
rule becomes generally understood.
While on the sulijeot of dinners,
I may mention a custom vdiieh is
surely founded upon superstition,
and ought to be banished for ever
from civilised society— the only so-
ciety in which it prevails. Why
should we be obliged to perf<»m
the not yery difficult operati(« of
dividing our food into morsels fitted
for the mouth with a weapon so
formidable and effectiye that we
could employ it 'with the greatest
ease to cut the throat of our nest
neighbour from ear to ear? Had
we to kill the meat in the first in-
stance one could understand the
propriety of being so armed; for
the sake of carving joints that bore
and birds that bewilder, such an
instrument is appropriate enough.
But why place it in the hands of
persons who have only their own
mouths to accommodate? It is
enough to embarrass a nervous
man, and how that very uncom-
fortable person, ' the most delicate
lady,' manages to survive the re-
sponsibility is one of those mar-
yels which can be accounted for
only by custom founded on the
grossest superstition. The anomaly
exists bat in association with Euro-
pean manners. The natives of the
EM;, and semi-civilised people else-
where, would not dream of such an
enormity. I do not insist, of course,
that people ought to eat with their
fingers; and chopsticks are natu-
rally unfitted for dividing a steak.
But when knives are wanted— and
they are not wanted, nor used, for
many dishes— why should we be
24
Socicd SupersiUions.
made to use a murderous weapon ?
One can fancy them fitted for the
days of old, when km'ghts carved at
the meal in gloves of steel and
drank the red wine through the
helmet barred ; but in those times
people used their own knives at
the table, and employed them, upon
occasion, in casual combats. Such
is not now the custom, though
there are instances of the proceed-
ing on the part of violent persons
even when engaged at the meal
itself; and the temptation is one
which should not be thrown in the
way of men of ungovernable tem-
pers, exasperated, it may be, by the
bad dinner of humble life. But
these enormous knives are given us
odviEcdly, and so careful is custom
in measuring the supposed neces-
sities of the case, that for the lighter
descriptions of food smaller knives
are given, so that you are supposed
to calculate the amount of force re-
quired at every course, and always
employ it accordingly. It is always
a comfort to get to a little knife
after a large one — it is like the
sense of peace and security that
comes after a fray— and no knife
need be larger than the silver one
gut on for dessert, if indeed it need
e so large; and I need scarcely
odd that forks might be modified
in proportion.
There are a few superstitions in
connection with our language whicb
may be pointed out in this place.
There have been a great many in
most times; but some have dis-
appeared while others have arisen,
and there are not mauy now re-
maining. Among them I will note
only some peculiarities in pronun-
ciation. We still call Derby Darby
and Berkeley Berkeley, Fall Mall
Pell Mell, not to add other instances.
Contractions, too, are not un&e>
quent Thus we cannot ask if the
Marquis of Cholmondeley is at
home, giving the syllables their
legitimate sound, witiiout running
the risk of being told by a facetious
servant that he will refer us to some
of his people. If we ask for the
Marquis of Ghumley we shall be
treated at least with respect.
Again, we must not say Leveson
Gower, but Leusou Gore, unless we
wish to be supposed out of the pale
of society; and Mr. Marjoribtuiks
would consider us a Goth if we
called him anything but March-
banks. These are only some of
the cases that mieht be cited.
Are they not founded upon su-
perstition ?
There are other superstitious ob-
servances in social Ufe to which I
might refer ; but I dare say I have
cited illustrations enough, and the
rest may suggest themselves to your
mind without my assistance.
Sidney L. Elanchard.
25
ANCIENT HOSTELBIES, AND THE MEN WHO FRE-
QUENTED THEM.
C0nc(rnCng ^nfiM, ffiragotutf, KtCts certain ancient Salacej^.
ONG ago, when the elder Mr.
WeUer, disciifising valentines,
asked 'What was the nse o'
callin' a yonng woman a angel ?'
and added that you 'might as
well call her a Grifi&n or a King's
Arms, which is werry well known
to be a collection of fabulous ani-
mals/ he displayed. a deep and
significant knowledge in the matter
of tayern signs.
It is satisfactory to know, how-
ever, that while 'The Devil' (of
which fiEunous hostelry we have
already gossiped) was only an ab-
breviation of a title which owed its
dignity more to Saint Dunstan
than to the arch-enemy, there have
been, and still are, ^gels which
claim our respectful observation.
Perhaps the most noted of the old
places bearing this sign was that
which formerly stood near the entrance of Clement's Inn, opposite the
railings of the church of St. Clement Danes. The locality itself was
ancient enough to give an antiquarian interest to the hostelry, which,
however, was not so old as the locality, though doubtless a house of enter-
tainment stood there even in the days when Henry HI. granted a piece of
ground close by to Walter le Bruin, the carrier, for the purpose of erecting
a forge on it The suit and service demanded of this doughty disciple of
St Clement was that he should annually render to the exchequer a quit
rent of six horseshoes, with the nails belonging to them ; and when the
groimd afterwards came into possession of the City, the same stipulation
was demanded of the sheriffs, who either themselves or by an ofQcer of the
court had to produce the horseshoes and the nails at the time of their
swearing in, and to count them before the Cursitor Baron, who represented
the sovereign. This custom is now, we believe, disused, and the Angel
itself, an old-fashioned coaching-house, once the resort of ' gentlemen of
the long robe,' has long ago disappeared under that title. On its site,
however, another hostelry has risen, which is certainly quite as famous,
and is probably as well known to members of the legal profession as it is
to the .artists and men engaged in literary pursuits whose business take&
them Strandward.
The late proprietor, father of the present Mr. Carr, gave his own name
to the modem representative of * The Angel,' and it soon achieved a repu-
tation which it still preserves as a place where a sound English dinner
may be accompanied by sound French wine, a combination particularly
acceptable to modem tastes, especially as ' Carr's' is distinguished for giving
its customers the benefit of the reduced duties on light wines, and so has
set an example to other hostel ries which it is to be regretted has not been
very vndely followed. It may be said that this is one of the few places
where the conditions of the ancient hostelry are preserved in regard to the
provision of substantial fare with the liquids that our forefathers drank
before the Methuen treaty banished claret and Burgimdy from British
tables in favour of black strap and fiery sherry, so that the best elements
26
AneieiU HostdrieSf and the Men who Frequented them.
of the Angel and its predecessors
reappear notwithstanding the inno-
vations of time. It may be hoped
that the new law courts will leave
the old site unmolested. The Inn
of St. Clement was originally, it is
supposed^ a hoose of entertainment
near the monastery^ and leoeiYed
penitents who came to 6t Clement's
Well, the Holy well which gave
its name to the adjoining street
As early as Edward II., however, it
was an inn of Chancery, and the
monastery having been removed, the
Holy Lamb, an inn on the west side
of the lane, received the pious as
well as the more secular guests.
The only other 'Angel' which
seems to have obtained general re-
cognition is the Angel at Islington,
bat its fiune, like that of the Ele-
phant and Castle, at the end of the
BcHOughand the top of Walworth,
is connected less with its antiquity
or its reputation as an hostelry than
with its being regarded as a land-
mark and a place where travellers
took coach for long or short jour-
neys. The Elephant and Castle,
by-the-by, was, half a century ago
or little more, only a one-storied,
low-roofed roadside inn, a pic-
turesque place enough, with a gal-
lery outside, and derived no small
degree of its reputation from the
adjoining chapel, a building in-
scribed in gigantic capitals 'The
House of Qod,' and used by the fol-
lowers of Joanna Southcott, pictures
of whose dreams and visions were
painted on the interior walls.
There have been several celebrated
hostelhes at Islington, however,
when that ancient suburb was
rightly called * merrie,* and was cele-
brated, not only for its ponds where
the Londoners went ' ducking,' but
for its cheesecakes and custards.
Pepys records how his father used
to carry him ' to Islington to the
old man's at the King's Head to eat
cakes and ale (his name was Pitts),'
and after that the once noted wells
were discovered by Sadler in the
garden of a house which he had
opened as a public music-room. It
ia at Sadler's Wells, opposite the Sir
Hugh Myddeltoo Tavern, that Ho-
garth laid the scene of his ' Evening.'
It was in 1683 that these wells, very
much resembling the waters of Tun-
bridge Weils in their medidnal pro-
perties, were opened; and in 1684
appewed a squib called ' A Morning
Eambie ; or, Islington Wells bur-
lesqt,' in which the author apostro-
phnes the saborb Ǥ 'Audacious
andnBOomeionablelaliogton! Was
it not enough that thou haflt, time
out of mind, been the metrapolitan
of cakes, custards, and sfcefwed
pmans?'— famous for bottled ale
that Begius the Huzza before one
drinks the health, and statutable
cans nine at least to the quart.
The fame of Islington cakes is no-
ticed by several writers, and itseeniB
to ba,i9 enjoyed an equal reputation
for costards, cream, and milk. 'A
man who gives the natural iiifltay
of the cow is not to ten b<nr many
cows are milked at Uiogton,' i^s
Dr. Johnson, and it would seem that
this iwml assodation with dairy
prodnoe m atill the chaaetaristie ot
the neigbbooriiood. It maj be be-
lieved, theretoe, tbat the hostelries
were pretty well supported by the
holiday-makers who wanted some-
thing either to qualify the water of
Sadler's Wells or to accompany the
ci^es of their suburban haunt. It
was in afirst fiocnrof the 'Old Parr's
Head' that John Henderson is said
to have made his first ess^y in
acting, and the Old Pied Bull was
still more celebrated, since it was
declared to have once been a villa
belonging to Sir Walter fialeigh.
Then there was the Bed Bull
Theatre, in St. John's Street Boad,
originally, it is believed, the Bed
Bull InD, whose ample yard baviDg
been used for acting plays or other
performances, was at last converted
into a regular theatre kte in the
reign of Qaeen Elizabeth. It was
there that the king's players per-
formed, under the management of
EilUgrew, till the stage in Drury
Lane was ready. After this it be-
came a kind of fencing-«chooU or
rather a theatre for the display of
strength and feats of arms. 'The
Bed Bull stands empty for fencers,'
eajs Davenant in 1663; 'there are
no tenante in it but spiders.' Pupils
of celebrated masters of the noble
art of self-defence were pitted against
each other there, and the * sets-to'
AncieiU Mostdrtea, and the Men who Frequented them, 27
comprised bouts with 'backsword,
single rapier, sword and dagger,
rapier and dagger, sword and buck-
ler, half-pike sword and gauntlet,
«jid single feiulchion.'
When once we commence with
the ' Balls' we have a list of hostel-
ries famous alike for their antiquity
and for the recollections of the men
who once resorted to their hospitable
portals. Curious enough, two of the
'Buir fraternity obtained their
names from a corruption of the ori-
ginal sign. The Bull and Gate iu
Holbom was, according to Steevens,
the Shakspearian commentator (who
^ined the information from the
title-page of an old play), no other
than the 'BuUogpe Gate,' a sign
adopted in compliment to Henry
YIIL after the taking of Boulogne
in 1544. It was a celebrated hos-
telry for travellers in the time of
Fielding, who makes Tom Jones
alight there on his arrival in London,
and once more retreat there, by
the advice of Partridge, during his
efforts to discover Sophia. A similar
corruption was that of the Ball and
Mouth, which should have been
Boulogne Mouth, once to be seen iu
St. Martin's-le-Grand, and said by
Strype to be ' of a good resort by
tho^ that bring bonae lace, where
the shopkeep^ and others come to
buy it. In this part of St. Martin's,'
be goes on, 'is a noted meeting-
house of the Quakers, called the
Bull and Mouth, and where they
met long before the fire.'
At the Bull's Head in Clare Mar-
ket the celebrated Dr. Eadcliffe was
a frequent guest It was Badcliffe,
whose skill was so great that he
could afford to apply his witticisms
even to royalty; for when he was
called upon to attend William III.,
who showed him his swollen legs
and asked him what he thought of
them, he replied, 'Why, truly, I
would not have your majesty's two
legs for your three kingdoms.' The
blunt answer gave no little offence,
but the eminent physician, who was
afterwards member of parliament
for Buckingham, and founded the
famous library at Oxford, seemed to
care very little even for royal favour.
It was at the Bull's Head, too, that
the artists' club, of which Hogarth
was a member, held its meetings.
Then there is the Bull Head Ta-
vern at Charing Cross, remarkable
chiefly as being next door to the
house (opening on to Spring Gar-
dens) where Milton lived for a short
time. More notorious than this was
the Golden Cross, in the same
locality, the resort of that consum-
mate ruffian Dick England, who
frequented that place for the pur-
pose of picking up victims among
the Irishmen who came to London
by the coaches that made the house
their halting-place. There have
been few such oonsununate black-
legs as England, who contrived to
make such profits by betting and
gambling that he not only kept an
elegant house in St. Alban's Street,
but actually engaged inasters to in-
struct him in polite literature, and
impart to him the graces of fashion-
able life. He was made president
of the four o'clock ordinary at Mun-
day's coffee-house, gave large sums
for the horses on which he rode
about town, and carried on this
elegant career in spite of his rival,
G«orge Mahon, who seems to have
had less finesse than England, and
perhaps was a little lees ready to back
his luck by an appeal to the sword.
Pay or fight was England's general
rule, when the stakes were high
enough to make the risk worth
while; and as he was an accom-
plished duellist as well as a bully,
he generally contrived to obtain
debts of honour. At last, on the
iSth of June, 1784, he challenged a
brewer of Kingston, from whom he
had won a large sum of money, and
killed his opponent in Leicester
Fields, in consequence of which he
was compelled to leave the country
and fled to Paris, where he con-
trived to convey such useful infor-
mation of the revolution to our
army during the campaign in Flan-
ders, that he became a paid agent of
the British cabinet Several times
he was committed to prison, and his
neck was in danger of the guillotine,
but he contrived to get off; and at
last, expecting perhaps that his ser-
vices had expiated his crime, came
to England, where he was appre-
hendea and punished with the fine
of a shilling and one year's imprison-
Ancient HostdrieSy and the Men toko Frequented them.
ment His careor had oome to an
end, however, for on his release he
was heard of no moie, but lived in
comparative poverty at his house in
Leicester Square. Ho did live, how-
ever, to beyond the ordinary term
of men's lives, for he was eighty
years old when he was found lying
dead on a sofa by the person who
went to call him to dinner.
To return to the Bulls, however, it
is necessary to retrace our steps to
the City, where the old Bull Inn in
Bi^opsgate was once the resort of
rare company. We have before
spoken of the adaptations of the old
um yards to the purpose of a theatie,
and the Bull in Bishopsgate was
one of the most famous for these
early stage plays. Before Burbage
and his companions obtained a
Eatent from Queen Elizabeth for
uilding a regular theatre, the actors
found space in the yard of the Boll
for their dramatic representations,
and it is not unlikely that Shake*
speare himself, who for some time, it
is believed, lived in the parish of
Saint Helen, Bishoppgate, witnessed,
if he did not have any special interest
in these performances. It is certain
that the humorist Tarlton often
played there, as he did at the old
Belle Sauvage ; and close to the old
hostelry lived Anthony Bacon (the
brother of tbo great essayist and
philosopher), much to the anxiety of
his mother, who feared lest the
morals of his servants might be cor-
rupted by the vicinity of the play-
house,~-and also lamented the want
of spiritual advantages in a parish
which was ' without a godly clergy-
man.' The Bull is perhaps still
more memorable as the place to
which the celebrated Hobson, the
Cambridge carrier, used to go when
he made his journey to London.
'This memorable man,' says the
' Spectator,' ' stands drawn in fresco
at an inn in Bishopsgato Street, with
a hundred pound bag under his
arm, with this inscription on the
said bag :
'The fruitful mother of an bandred more/
Well may Hobson be said to be a
memorable man, since he had the
honour of two epitaphs written by
Milton. He was bom about 1544,
and inherited from his father ' the
team ware with which he now goeth,
that is to say, the cart and eight
horses, harness, nag, &c' Monthly
for many years he passed between
the University and the Bull Inn,
carrying letters, parcels, and occa-
sionally passengers. To this busi-
ness he added that of letting horses
for hire,~inde6d he is said to have
been the first person in the kingdom
who engaged in the trade, and his
role of never allowing any horse to
leave the stable except in its proper
order added to his celebrity by
making him responsible for the
celebrated proverb known as Hob-
son's choice— 'that or none.' So
well did he thrive by this business
of letting horses to the collegians,
that in 1604 he contributed 50^. to
the loan of King James I., and in
1626 he gave a large Bible to the
church of the parish of St Benedict,
where he resided, while two years
later he presented to the CTniversity
and town the land for the Spinning
House, otherwise known as Hob-
son's workhouse. By that time he
had acquired considerable estates,
and at his death, which occurred at
the age of eighty-five, in 1 6 30, during
the time that his visits to London
were suspended by the authorities
on account of the plague, he be-
queathed, beside property to his
family, money to the Corporation
and the profits of the pasture land
(now the site of Downing College)
towards the heightening and pre-
servation of the conduit in Cam-
bridge. He also left money to the
poor of Cambridge, Chesterton,
Waterbeach, Cottenham, and Boun-
tingford. He was buried in the
chancel of the church of St Bene-
dict, but neither monument nor in-
scription marks the spot, although
the author of * Paradise Lost ' wrote
the punning elegy upon him, which
says:
' Ease was hLs chief diseiue : and, to judge right.
He died for weariness that his cart went light :
HLi leisure told him that his time was come.
And lack of load made his life burdensome.
Obedient tu the moon he spent bis date
In course reciprocal, and bad his fate
Linked to the mutual flowing of the seas ;
Yet, strange to thluk, his tram was his in-
crtoM.
His letters are delivered all and gone,
Only remains this superscription.'
Ancient Hostdries, and the Men wlio Frequented them.
He seems to haye been generally
esteemed, at any rate, and several
portraits of him were long preserved,
one of which was to be seen nntil
the beginning of the present oentnry
at the ancient hostelry of which he
was so remarkable a visitor.
There is very little of its antiquity
now remaining at the Bnll, how-
ever, and in a few years there may
be only one or two of these quaint
old inns remaining in the City, or,
for that matter, in any part of Lon-
don. The Four Swans, which once
also stood on Bishopsgate, has made
way for 'modern improvements,'
and the Vine and the Green Dragon
alone remain to keep their ancient
comradecompany. The Green Dragon
is perhaps one of the best remaining
examples of the old hostelry, and
something like the old style is scru-
pulously retained there, for although
the proprietor has continued to
maintein the building in firesh re-
pair, it is difficult to discover where
the hand of time had imprinted it
with decay. One innovation is at
least a pleasant one : the queer ex-
ternal galleries, a little modernised
in their renovation, have been en-
closed with glass,— and on a trellis-
work leading up to the balcony
luxuriant creeping plants have been
made to twine, so as to give a cool
and refreshing aspect to the old inn
yard in summer-time. There is, in
fact, a wonderful vitality in the Green
Dragon, which still opens its hos-
pitable jaws for scores of guests who
go daily to dine in its low-oeilinged
rooms, with great beams at all sorts
of angles, and shining mahogany
tables and old-fashioned boxes,
where a party of six can find com-
fortable elbow-room. The Dragon
is great in rich soups and mighty
joints of prime succulent meat and
substantial eating in general,— dis-
daining modern embellishments and
French kickshaws, and caring very
little about patent methods. Con-
tenting itself with an old-&shioned
range and a good plain cook, and
old wines that have stood the test of
opinion for three generations : so that
it may be said to flourish in a Green
(Dragon) old ago and is no unfit
representative of its old patron who
' wealthy grew by warrantable &me.'
The demands of modem society,
and especially the influence of rail-
ways, which have shortened long
journeys and the enormous growth
of suburban London, which provides
residences for those who formerly
lived near their business in the City,
have gone far to diminish the number
of those ancient ho^telries, once the
representatives of good cheer and
unqaestioned comfort Many of the
old places have entirely disappeaied,
and new piles of building devoted
to offices and mercantQe warehouseB
have made the sites which they
once occupied almost undisoover-
able. Othera have been suffered to
go to decay, and are now used for
other purposes. We spoke, in a
former number, of that good old
hostelry the Saracen's Head in Aid-
gate, where once the noted sign
hung as one of London's landmarCs.
Since that notice was written we
have learned that there is still a
Saracen's Head, a tavern, kept by
the daughter of the last proprietor
of the venerable hostelry, and that
the original sign, vast, weighty, and of
terribly grim presence, now gives its
name to a house in Northumberland
Alley, in Fenchurch Street. More
than that, the frequenten of the
ancient place, or their modem repre-
sentatives, have preserved their
allegiance, and in ihe little parlour
of the Saracen's Head of to^y we
may still meet the sturdy North
Sea pilots who came thither for their
pay after a blusterous voyage that
has perhaps kept them beating
about the coast of Norway, with the
Tision of their hit hostess and the
hoped-for rest and food and fire that
awaited them in this queer nook of
old London to cheer them in anxious
watches and the driving mist and
spray of their long nights at eea.
There is another house in Fen-
church Street which cannot well be
left out in a gossip about London
and its hostelries; and it has con-
trived to combine with its quaint
reputation a skilful adaptation to
modem wants. It was at the
King's Head, named after her royal
father, that Queen Elizabeth is said
to have dined on her way from the
Tower after her short imprisonment ;
and thoagh there may be sceptics
30
Andmt Hostelries^ and the Men who Frequented them*
whoare inclined to doubt tho identity
of the dish and platter exhibited as
the veritable articles used at the
table of the great princess, — and the
present antique character of the
handsome smoking-room is some-
what indebted to modem imitatiTO
art, it is quite certain that the old
place has so kept abreast of the
times that even City clerks and
hurried merchants can dine there
from more toothsome viands than
many that graced the royal tables
in the days of its first prosperity.
Strangest, and not the least in-
teresting among the London hostel-
ries of our day, are those ancient
palaces, which, having survived the
wrecks made by time, have outlived
their original state, and now open
their portals for the throng of to-
day to take the places once held by
the men and women of the past It •
is especially in that historical
quarter of London known as
Bishopsgate, that wo find the most
remarkable samples of these ancient
buildings which are yet but modern
hostelries. Till lately it was Ger-
rard's Hall which was the more
prominent example of the convert
sion of the old palace into the
modern tavern.
Gerrard's Hall in Basingham
could hardly be called a modem
hostelry, however, for in the time of
Stow it had been converted to that
use, and until very recently the fine
old place with its ball-room, its beds
for seventy-eight guests, its antique
chambers, and its fine Norman crypt,
were among the sights of London.
It was in 1245 that John Gisors,
Mayor of London, lived in this old
city palace, so that we should have
to go back far in English history to
write the story of the venerable
house. A romance, such as Bulwer
has given us, might be made from
the records of the men who fre-
quented that palace built on the
land that bore the name of the
great family of Basing at a time
when the City traders had already
begun to achieve, by their wealth
and industry, an influence that was
not fully asserted till the Wars of
the Boses had ceased and the
Seventh Henry constmcted the
fabric for which the ground had
been cleared by the destmction of
the barons and the feudal chivalry.
To commimicate the names of the
celebrated men who frequented a
mansion, the history of which b^;ins
in the reign of Henry III., while its
legendary reputation goes back into
tradition, would require a separate
article. It must suffice to repeat
the words of the chronicler Stow,
who says: 'On the south side of
Basingham is one great house of old
time, built upon arched vaults, and
with arched gates of stone, brought
from Caen in Normandy. The same
is now a common hostelry for receipt
of travellers, commonly and cor-
rnptly called Gerrard's Hall, of a
giant said to have dwelt there. In
tho high-roofed hall of this house
sometime stood a large fir-pole which
reached to the roof thereof, and was
said to be ono of the staves that
Gerrard the giant used in the wars
to ran withaJ. There stood also a
ladder of the same length, which (as
they say) seemed to ascend to the
top of the staff. Of late years this
hall is altered and divers rooms are
made in it. Notwithstanding the
pole is removed to one comer of the
hall, and the ladder hanged broken
upon a wall in the yard. The
hosteler of that house said to me,
*' The pole lacketh half a foot of
forty in length:" I measured the
compass thereof and found it fifteen
inches. Keasons of the pole could
the master of the hostelry give me
none ; but bade me read the great
Chronicles, for there he heard of it
I will now note what myself hath
observed concerning that house. I
read that John Gisors, Mayor of
London in the year 1245, ''^as
owner thereof, and that Sir John
Gisors, Constable of the Tower 1311,
and divers others of that name and
family since that time, owned it So
it appeareth that this Gisors' Hall
of late time by corruption hath
l>een called Gerrard*s Hall for Gisors'
Hall. The pole in the hall might
be used of old time (as then the
custom was in every parish) to be
set up in the summer as a maypole.
The ladder served for the decking of
the maypole and roof of the hall.'
Chamberlain in his history of
London follows Stow, and recounts
AneietU Ho9lelrt€$y and the Men who Frequented them. 81
tbat 'the labnlotiB tradiiioDS swal-
lowed by onr credtilonB ancestoiB'
niade Gerrard a giant whose 'skull
being found woald hold five peoks ;
and his thigh bone was six feet long,
imd one of his teeth weighed ten
pounds tioy: without considering
that a person of such prodigious
dimensions could not possibly in-
habit a house or hall of the size this
appears to have been by its remains,
which are still to be seen in the
arched vaults, supported by sixteen
pillars built of stone brought from
Caen in Normandy^ and are now
used for cellars, being oitiiely under
the floor of the building.'
Qiflors', or as it was still called,
Gerrard's Hall, has only lately dis-
appeared, however. Theyery site
will soon be uncertain, and no
modem hostelry marks the place'
where it formerly stood.
Another queerold mansion, patched
and preserved in a shabby sem-
blance to its original quaini plas-
tered frontal and unequal gables, is
now an ordinary tavern, known as
the Sir Paul Pindar, in Bishops-
gate. The house was, in fact, the
residence of the noted km'ght whose
name it still bears; and though
these are few internal relics of the
state he once held there, the edifice
itself is still something of an ex-
ample of the old civic mansion of
the fifteenth or sixteenth century.
Sir Paul Pindar, who was bom at
Wellingborough, in Northampton-
shire, in 1566, received the educa-
tion of a gentleman of those times;
but having discovered a remarkable
desire to follow commercial pur-
suits, he was apprenticed to an
Italian merchant in the City, named
Parrish, by whom he was employed
as an agent in Venice, then the
great mart of the world. For
several years he lived in the Levant
and other places abroad until, on
his coming to England in 16 11, his
great skill as a linguist induced the
company of merchants to the Le-
vant to recommend him to King
James as ambassador to the. Grand
Seigneur. In that office he re-
mained nine years, to the great ad-
vantage of English interests, and
probably to his own, for when he came
home he brought with him a for-
tune comprised in a single diamond
valued at 30,00c/. It may easily he-
supposed that the eyes of the British
Solomon were dazzled by such a-
jewel, and that he coveted it as
much as was at all consistent with
his reputation for wisdom and vir-
tue; but Pindar was implacable,
and would only ccmsent to lend the
'bonnie sparkler' upon state occa-
sions. The femous jewel and its
owner survived King James, and
the latter was equally desired by
his successor Charles L, who at lasi
contrived to purchase it, though it
is said that it was afterwards i)awned
to the Queen of Bohemia during
the civil troubles. Meanwhile Sir
Paul, who had refased the post of
Lieutenant of the Tower, preferred
the more solid advantage to be
derived as one of the farmers of the
Customs, in which capacity he ad-
vanced large sums to the Crown,
obtaining in return a great exten-
sion of the privileges of the City.
He was afterwards able to provide
money for the safe conduct of the
unfortunate queen and her children ;
and indeed he seems to have been
wonderfully sagacious in his specu-
lations not only for himself but for
the state. The nmnufacture of
alum, which had been introduced at
Whitby by an Italian, was taken up
by him in such a way as to secure
it for a monopoly to the Crown,
which lasted till 1643. At length,
however, the knight's affairs became
so embarrassed by the troublous
events of the kingdom that at his
death the executors found them-
selves unable to extricate them, and
one of them (William Toomes) who
had been nominated to fulfil his
testamentary intentions found the
task so hopeless that he evaded it
by committing suicide. The parish
books of St Botolph, Blshopsgate,
contain numerous entries of the
worthy knight's liberality in sub-
scribing for communion-plate, money
for the poor, and venison for feast-
ing the parochial magnates. One
of the entries is, ' Given to Sir Paul's
cooke, who brought the pastie,
25. 6^.' Another account refers to
the feast for which the knight sent
the venison, and amounts to 195. 6d,
for 'floure, butter, pepper, ^ges,.
82
Ancient Hostelries, and the Men who Frequented titem.
makiog, and baking.' There is also
an entry of 2I, paid by Sir Panl for
license to eat flesh on fish days;
and the last reference to the worthy
knight is in 1650, when 168. was
paid to the glazier for mending the
windows broken at his funeral. It
would be difficult to imagine the
present decayed building, which is
«11 that remains of the knight's
mansion, the house to which a pork
«nd garden were once attached;
but tibere are changes almost as
strange in other parts of this great
•city.
Not, however, in that most beau-
tiful of all the old London palaces,
€ro8by Hall. Since the days when
the great building and its court-
yard covered nearly the whole site
of Crosby Square, where it was
built by Sir John Crosby on land
leased from the ancient convent
of St. Helen's; the neighbourhood
has altered, but the great banquet-
ing hall, with its glorious oak roof,
its charming bay-window, and its
fine proportions, is still much as it
was in the days when the wily
and unpitying Duke of Gloucester
schemed for the crown in the apart-
ments of the palace which he had
then made his residence. There is
no need to go at length into the
history of this fine old place, still
one of the most beautiful examples
of domestic Gothic architecture to
be seen in Europe ; while a record
of its frequenters would include
some of the greatest names in the
most brilliant history of our country.
A very full account of the ancient
City palace, its occupiers and visit-
ors, nas been published by the
present proprietor, who, with a
worthy regard for all that is noble
in its history, has preserved and re-
stored it with only such few altera-
tions as have also restored to its
original purpose the great banquet-
ting hall ; so that City clerks and
merchants, as well as visitors from
all parts of London, find in the vene-
rable building the comforts and
conveniences of a modem dining-
room, where economy and luxury
go hand in hand, and the wines of
France and Germany are restored
to the representatives of the men
who drank their Clary and hippo-
eras, BJB well as the beer that has
ever since been regarded as the
drink of Britain. There is in Lon-
don no more striking example of a
rightly- directed enterprise than that
conversion of the ancient City palace
to the purposes of the modem
hostelry.
^^^"^^^^y^
88
PUBLIC SCHOOL TYPES.
ME. BUCKLE in his 'History of
Ciyilization' ventnies some-
lehere or other to start the qnestion
what modifications the Engluh cha-
racter might possibly undergo, if, in-
stead of being a people addicted to
the consumption of beer and other
equally heayy beyeiages, we were to
emulate the continental example,
and adhere to light olazet and the
wines that are natiTO to the banks
of the Bhine. Should we be
straightway metamorphosed into a
nation Tolatile and lighthearted
even as our lively neighbour the
Gaul? Would all traces of our
insular phlegmatism disappear?
Should we become the inheritors
of natures so mobile and facile as
to renounce the Conseryatism which
in some shape or other is one of our
iuTariable ijopular characteristics?
Should we, in fact, be a race of men
wholly diffarent from what we at
present are? The solution of the
problem is difficult enough, seeing
thaty amongst other things necessary
to be demonstrated before we could
be sure of realizing the conditions
essential to the case, is the point
whether it would be possible in this
mvskv climate of ours for the bulk
of the people, the toiling masses,
whose labour is intellectual as well
as physical, to support themselves
on the airy fluids which we have
mentioned in lien of the national
heavy wet
A more pertinent inquiry for our
present purpose is what would be
the difimence felt in the develop-
ment of our national manhood if we
were to sweep off from the face of
the earth all trace of such institu-
tions as our public schools and uni-
versities ? How fax can the count-
less influences of these, and especially
the former, be said to be indis-
solubly interwoven with the com-
E Heated network of our popular
fe? The well-known saying of the
Duke of WelliDgton that the battle
of Wateiloo was won upon the
playing-fields of Eton has been re-
pneated so often that we are almost
sick of hearing it. But after all it
is typical of a great truth, sym-
VOL. XVL— HO. xoi.
bolical of a mighty fact which ad-
mits of no trifling. What do the
mass of parents 'send their sons to
our pubhc schools for? How is it
that Eton and Harrow are fall to
overflowing — ^that it is almost as
difficult to get a boy into either of
those seminaries as to procure the
entree of the Carlton or Athenieum?
It is not that the mental tndning
which either of these seats of learn-
ing administers is so superlatively
and exceptionally good. On tiie
contrary, with the amazing strides
which national education is making
throughout the country, a dull boy,
or one only moderately clever— and
to one of these two classes the mass
of our British boys belong— has
far better chance of becoming satu-
rated with a modicum of knowledge
at some of those centres of instruc-
tion whose rise is altogether a more
modem afi&iir. Ninety boys out of
every hundred, it is scarcely too
much to assert, are despatched duly
to these great seminaries for no
other purpose than that they may
experience to the full the benefit
of their social influences— that their
characters may be strengthened and
developed by the experiences of this
little world, which is, after all,
merely a microcosm of the great
world outside. This being the fiinc-
tion which a public school training is
calculated and desired in the greater
number of cases to perform, the
immense force which these homes
of education must possess ppon the
moulding of the characters of Eng-
lishmen generally is a self-evident
&ci
What are the diflbrent variations
of morale, the select types of cha-
racter, which are produced under
these influences? Or is it to be
supposed that the development of
the public school boy as a class is
tolerably uniform, no matter what
the particular school to which he
may hapx)en to belong— no matter
whether he hail from Eton or Hu>
row, Winchester or Westminster,
or from foundations infinitely less
venerable and celebrated? As an
order, doubtless, all public school
D
84
PtMie Sekool Tgpe$.
boys have oeriun broad social
featnies in oommon lehioh oon-
clnsiTely dijBfeientiate them from
private school prodaota. Bat the
gerxoB admits of specific snbdiyision,
and the marks of sepaiation yisible
in these snbdiTisions are sufficiently
easy to trace.
' Eton gentlemen, Harrow backs,
Westminster scholars, and Win-
chester blackgaards;' this is the
way in which it was once fashion-
able, without any attempt at nicer
distinctions or any question of the
justice of the seyend classifications,
to discriminate between the pro-
ducts of the fiimous institations
they enumerated. And the aphorism
has about as much truth m it as
such sayiogs usually hare. It is
just possible to conoeiTe what may
have originally given rise to this
off-hand nomenclature— merely this,
and nothing more. We must at-
tempt a more philosophical system,
and look at matters from a different
point of view and with a minuter
Tision. When could we have a
better time than at present for the
<x)mpletion of, at any rate, a por-
tion of this task-^when a more
appropriate moment for com-
mencing our investigation of the
various and complex phenomena of
public school character than now —
now when the ground at Lord*s is
crowded with the whole of fashion-
able London— when what is pre-
eminently the public school match
of the year is m course of celebra-
ticm, and for two days at least the
young Etonian or Harrovian is indis-
putably the master of the situation
and the hero of the hour? Look
at them. See those boys of ours,
how they saunter up and down the
ground, threading their vray in and
out between the maze of carriages^
knowing perfectly well that tibey
or their scnoolfellows it is who have
been instrumeotal in emptying Bel-
gravia and Mayfair upon Lord's
ground to-day, yet, infi^ring from
their perfect air of coolness and
imperturbable stoicism of demean
nour, sublimely unconscious of the .
fact The society of the great
schools and of the great world out-
side perpetually act and react upon
each other. Qood society hates
scenes, rotes every eooentriciiy of
maimer aod demonstrativeness of
demeanour bad form: the schools
have followed suit, and the ideal
of deportment which an Eton or
Harrow boy proposes to fafmself is
of pure paasionlsBS exterior. But
'tis ihe old story. Expel Natare
with a pitchfork, still will she
assert her infiuence. The Etonian
has schooled himself into ondemon-
strativeness persistently and well;
but the ringmg cheers which borst
from those phalanges of boys in the
dwk-blue and light-blue ties when-
ever a good drive fbr four is made,
or a clever ball bowled, tell us
plainly enough that the dd spirit
IS there as much as ever, and the
enthusiasm, if greater, is only sup-
pressed with purtial success.
No wonder that England is proud
of these her public school boys: no
wonder that half a metropolis
um'tes to applaud to the echo the
athletic prowess of these young-
sters: no wonder, too, that foreign
potentates and princes should send
their sons to Eton and Harrow, and
when th^ see what Eton and Har-
row can produce, devoutly say,
'Cum talis sis utinam noster esses.*
If these lads have learned some-
thing of that self-containedness
which is one of the great lessons of
life; if, as they stroll to and fro over
the green sward— we will call it
green, if you please, if only for the
poetiy of the thing—independence
and insouciance are stamped upon
each feature of their coantenance,
the influence of their respective
schools does not by any means end
here. Pluck, endurance, honour,
a detestation of what is bad style,
and a horror of the frizarre— these
are amongst the virtues which they
have learned, and which leave so
visible a stamp upon their features.
Pretentious sometimes, conceited
occasionally, now and then some-
thing of a braggadocio, your public
school boy may be. These, how-
ever, are merely transient traits:
time and the world will tone down
much of them, or perhaps cause
them to disappear altogether.
It may possibly seem that to in-
sist upon the existence of any very
perceptible separate characteristics
PMio School J)fp68.
8S
in the Eton and tbe Harrow boy is
to wse a diatiiMstion which is not
a di&renoe. Nerertheless, these
eharaotarisfcios there assuredly are,
even though it may require some
attentkm to be aware of them.
^Eton genflemen and Haxrow
bfuoks;' and the phrase in a rough
way hits off the more salient points
fiedrly enough. The Eton boy^
whatever he is, good, bad, or indif-
ferent^ dull or clerer, indolent or
industrious, a 'wet bob* or a 'diy
bob,' is above everything the gentle-
man. Be never forgets that he has
a reputation to maintain; that he
has the traditions oi generations to
support; and that the lustze of the
prestige whidh has been transmitted
to him through sueoesflive seoula
of his predeoeseors must be handed
down m its natiye purity to those
who may come afterwards. Intense
Oonservatism is an ever-present
feature in the young Etonian. Tbe
antiquity of the place, the Tenerable
asBociatiansof whiohit ut theoentre,
the memory of the illustrious per-
sonages who have been imbued
with tiie elements of humanity and
culture cm. the banks of the Thames
— all these have exercised uponbim,
nnoonsoionsly yery likely, precisely
thai degree and kind of moral
infiuenoe wMoh might have been
ezpeeted. Eton, it must be remem-
bered, has a lai^ number of cue*
toms peeuliar to itself, a greater
quantity of stock phrases fiym«
bolioal of corresponding practices,
and withal a vaster fund of reve-
rence to these than any other
pnblks school in the world. Even
an Eton master, however ayerse
to the institution, for certain
reasons oonneeted with its ope-
rative efBaets, he might be, would
not have it in his heart to interfere
with the time-honoured usages of
« the long glass' and 'tap.' There
18 nothi^ surprising, therefore, if
these aodHlentB of usage, with the
respect that they elicit and the ob-
servaaoe ihsj demand, have eier-
eised an inflnenoe,not merely limited
to the place in which they exist,
saered and inviolable, and have
produeed a ihone of mind which the
£ton hoy canies home with him firom
school fag the holiday,and a species
of moral attitude which he at once
oooupies towards the outride world.
The merit of an ordinance consists
in its age; that is the principle
which has been impressed upon
him by the training of his school
Hfe: that is one of the great results
obtained firom the sodaTand educa-
tional conditions to which he has
been submitted. Now there is little
or nothing of this vein of sentiment
in the Harrow boy. The history of
the school which the pious yeoman
founded is indeed reputable, even
glorious: but its past is not the
past whose memorias wreathe them-
selves around the venerable motto
FhrecUEtona. Theatmoq»hereof the
place is different Byren's oak still
flourishes in the Harrow church-
yard : but this, and muoh else like
this, is of yesterday. There is none
of that perpetuation of ancient
events in modem celebration which
at Eton is everything. Mr. Dis-
raeli, whose insight into our social
life is as keen as it could well be,
has precisely hit off this side of
Etonian existence in the conversa*
tions he has recorded between his
schoolboys in ' Coningsby.'
There is indeed at Harrow and in
the products which bear the im-
primatur of sturdy John Lyle's
school, a something which reminds
one of Talleyrand's remark when he
stepped into the brougham of a
friend to whom that vehicle was a
very recent acquisition, II sent de
net^. The Hanovian will, indeed,
refer to the roll-lists of his school,
and then give the names of titled
magnates and territorial magnates
galore. It matters not Eton ever
has been the school of England,
and so long as such institutions
continue to exist, ever will be.
When the Middlesex Seminary was
an obsenre establishment, the shades
of pious Henry had achieved a
European reputation. Harrow has
gained her distmotion rather firom
her popularity with the aristoeracy
of wealth than the aristocracy of
birth. With Eton it has been ex-
actly the reverse. 'Eton gentie-
men and Harrow bucks :' the expre»-
sion is perfectiy correct, and tends
to an undeniable truth. Dandyism,
in the majority of cases, is the cha-
D a
PubUc Sbftool Tfipe$.
xaotenBtio of the nouveaux riches:
it is the attempt to rapply by art
what has been denied by nature.
Dandyism, or, if ve may be allowed
the expression, bnckism, is not con-
fined to the mere wearing of clothes.
It is visible in the manners of the
man, as well as originated in the
shop of the tailor. A oonscioosness
of weakness prompts its manifesta-
tion. If we may be allowed to ayail
onrselves of a somewhat cockney
metaphor, the difference that exists
between Eton and Harrow is much
that which is to be fonnd between
Mayfair and BelgraTia. We take
them each as they are: we like
them both: and after all, as we
have above hinted, to the mass of
spectators the Etonian and Ear-
roTian may appear in identical de-
Telopment Even here we have but
been able to assign to each traits
which are scarcely apparent to the
superficial gaze. Stiil, let the in-
telligent reader at this period, when
both types of schoolboys are in
town, ask one or two of each to
dinner; and he will add his testi-
mony to the justice of oar remarks.
He wiU see that there is something
of the old style in the Eton boy
that the Harrow has not, and will
note the presence of a certain je ne
sais quoi air, a subtle essence, which
defies definition: an indescribable
air of finish whicn, as it is eminently
Etonian both in its birth and its
development, so, too, is conspicuous
in the Harrovian only by its ab-
sence.
What is a public school? We
have completely outgrown the an-
cient answer which informed us
that there were five institutions, and
five only, to which the term was
appL'cable. Judged according to
that dictum, we should exclude from
the categoiy Bugby, Marlborough,
Cheltenham, and a host of those
other seminaries whose size and
importance rival if they do not
surpass that of Westminster, Win-
chester, and Charterhouse. For our
present purpose we must prefer the
newer K)undations to tne older.
The Charterhouse boy is not a type
at all, and much the same may be
said of ' the Westminster scholar.'
Nor is the reason fuc to seek. The
purity, nay, the vei7jperM)ne2Z0 of aoy
school is preserved exactly in pro-
portion as the number of boaraers
preponderate over the number of
day scholars. National chancier,
we are told, is but the result of a
continued identity of social con-
ditions. If that identity is weakened
in degree or abbreviated in dura-
tion, the result is that the national
character at once becomes less
strongly defined. In the case of
schools we can only have this con-
tinuity when the day scholars are in
a minoritv, and that minority a veiy
considerable ona If you (mod in-
troduce a heterogeneous element in
the shape of a body of boys whose
school hfe is perpetually interrupted
by life elsewhere^ the result is that
the whole spirit and the entire
Renins of the thing are lamentably
destioyed. Ton fiiil to produce a
distinct and separate type: yon
have a monjirel and an amalgam.
Schoolboy li&, to have its full in>
fiuence, necessarily involves the
idea of a considerable quantity of
boys passing their time together.
And if this condition is essential
for the realization of the type, it is
also essential for the preservation
of anything like school discipline.
When the parental inclination per-
petually clashes with the magisterial
authority ; when the father and the
pedagogue are brought into ccxn-
petition; and when the boy feels
that he can appeal from the one to
the other, farewell, not only to the
production of a distinct class of
schoolboy, but to the validity of
all wholesome discipline. West-
minster and Charterhouse have both
suffered in the highest degree from
this confusion of elements. The
Eton boy is a distinct type, so is the
Harrow: possibly even the Winr
Chester: even about tiie youngster
who haOs from the home which
learning has beneath the shades of
the venerable abbey, there stOl
linger some few traces of indivi-
duality: but as for your alumnus
of Charterhouse, the whole case is
different
It is scarcely to be denied that
both Westminster and Charterhouse
have to pay a heavy price for their
central sites and their metropolitan
PMie School Types.
87
liomos. A Bcbool ought to be le-
xnoved as far as poeaible beyond the
Teach of their inflnenoe. It ought
io be self-contained: if it is desired
to develop a separate and distinct
phase of character it mnst be self-
contained; and it ouffht, socially
speaking, to be acted npon by
external force only in an in-
finitesimal degree. The neigh-
bourhood of Westminster and
Oharterhonse mnst inevitably tell
heavily against them. Eton and
BftTTow look for their models within
iheir own academical walls: the
schoolboy whose school is merely a
fichool in a town, and not the in-
Btitntion of the place, naturally
takes his cue from the more im-
posing examples of exoteric exist-
'Onoa To say that a schoolboy uses
slang, and that he is slangy, is to
flay two very difBarant things. The
former may be true of Eton and of
Harrow, the latter certainly is not
Herein, as in a nutshell, is to be
found the great distinction between
the two large classes of our public
school boys. Those frequent expe-
ditions to the questionable resorts
in the vicinil^, the experience which
has been picked up in places where
' life' (ota certain kind) is to be
seen, are not &vourable to the
agreeable development of the school-
boy character. Tor the proper ap-
Slication of these remarks to the
isciple of Westminster and Char-
terhoQse the works of Mr. Thackeray
may be consulted passim.
Let us look at the young Bug-
bean— quite a different specimen
from any of those which we have al-
jready contemplated. He is a stout-
hearted, brave young Englishman
enough — and when we have said
that, we bave said all. Dr. Arnold
we reverence as much as any man
living : Heaven forbid that we should
utter any words save those of the
profoundest respect touching his
memory; but ut. Arnold is one
thing and Arnold and Water is
another. This is the title which
Arnold's Cambridge scholars earned
at the time: it is a title, their right
to which Bugby boys, as a body,
Jhave since done little to disprove.
With the enervating waters of their
own assxmiption they have diluted
the flavour of their exemplar, till
they have almost extinguished the
latter, and we can mionly discri*
minate the former. Ccrruptiooptimi
pessima fit : and we may be sure
that this saying would in a very
singular degree hold true in the
case of Bugby's great head master.
The real racfc is, that the present
generation of Bugby boys considerB
itself entitled to live on the repu-
tation of the past; that the SBgis of
Arnold's name sheds over them a
certain glow of in&llibility; and that
for this reason they possess a kind
of moral superiority over the rest
of the world. BecQgnition of the
nobility of manly strength has
become with them a species of
objectionable cant Conceit, a wan-
ton air of independence, a mon-
strous egotism, an unpleasantly
patent self-consdouaness^-these are
among the social attributes of your
Bugby boy. Is that what Arnold
wished?
If the Etonian and Harrovian are
pre-eminently the polished stones,
the edition de luxe^ hot -pressed,
cream-papered, and gilt-edged, of
public school life, the Wykehamist
IS as pre-eminentiy the rough dia-
mond, and the rude copy. About
him there is nothing of that studied
regard of the amenities of existence
which make either of the others so
socially pleasant The Eton and
the Harrow boy whom we see at
Lord's ]& indeed a hoy, but we feel
that the lad is a gentleman, and
we treat him as such. On the other
hand, young Winchester impresses
us afi a ' cub.' We have no wish to
be otherwise than rigidly impartial
in this classification of ours. We
are wholly unprejudiced. The point
of view which we take is com-
pletely that of the outsider, and we
speak not of special and exceptional
instances, but merely of those cases
which may be supposed roughly to
constitute the rule.
Marlborough is an excellent
school. If you want your son to
get on, to be certain of a scholar-
ship at Oxford, to acquire a power
of interminable quotation of autho-
rities at lecture, send him to the
Wiltshire seminary. If, on the other
hand, you wish to give him a good
88
I>ofm DdU.
social tniniog, to see him aoqniie
a pleanng addroBS, to gain the xe-
patation of a pleasant friend and
an agreeable companion, despatch
him elsewhere. All the &alts which
Bngby possenes Marlborongh has
magnified teofold. But the xeaaon
is simple enough. Marlborough
has caixied all her notions of in-
ternal administration from the pio-
tofypes of the Warwickshire schooL
In the first instance, all her best
masters came thence, and the only
pablio school of which th^ knew
anything was Bngby. The acade-
mical achievements of Marlborongh
have been something marvellous,
and speak volumes to the industry
of her masters, and the aptitude <^
her pupils. Her tnompfas in the
cricket-field have not oean con-
temptible. But these meisnieshaive
not had the effiaet of mflitating
against the entire applicafaility of
anything we have said or could say
apropos of the social chaiaotedatics
of the Marlburian, pasi^ psesent,
or future. The boy is a good
classic and a capital criokBter ; but
ask him to dine, and he will bore
you to death with his ridiculonsly
doxosphistical airs in about ten mi-
nutes. Perhaps after all this is
merely natural Marlborough is a
very young school, and its prosperity
is precocious, and its piecooi^ is
unfortunate in its lesuUs.
DOVE DALE-
IN many points of view Derby-
shire is an excellent region for
travel or soioum in the Long Vaca-
tion. It IS very accessible from
town; the whole of it lies within
a manageable compass; it boasts of
some of the most celebrated land-
scapes in English scenery; it con-
tains some of the most famous
palaces of our nobility; it has dis-
tricts crowded with a manu&cturing
population, and secluded vales that
have hardly altered since the time
of the Stufurts. If you go to Wales,
or the western counti^^ of Devon
and Gomwall, or the Rhine, or Swit-
zerland, it is scarcely possible that
you can work the map exhaustively,
and there is always some critical
prig who will authoritatively assure
you that you have missed the par-
ticular places which, beyond all
others, you ought to have seen.
But if you go to Derbyshire at all,
it is worth while to do it thoroughly ;
and you may do it thoroughly within
the limits of a moderate furlough.
Derbyshire is called a Midland
county, but in reality, in character
and climate, it rather belongs to the
cluster of northern counties. Ton
will see no district so pretty until,
a hundred miles further on, you
come to the Lake country. As soon
as you have cleared out of the huge
station at Derby, you perceive how
greatly the character of the scenery
has changed for the better. Toa
have left the wide expanse of dull
flat country behind you, and now
you catch glimpses of rocks and
rivers, mountains and dales— pio*
turesque bits that suggest idylls in
themselves; then ancm tall chim-
neys and the illumination of furnace
fires. At Ambergate, the line to
Matlock and Buxton, and thence to
Manchester, branches o£f ; and if you
would do Derbyshire thoroughly,
you must grow very familiar wiUi
this line of ndlway^-the prettiest
line that the whole railway map of
England can display. I happily
knew the district in old days, before
it was polluted with the amount of
pollution which even the prettiest
fine unavoidably brings with it
Chesterfield is a convenient staticm
for head-quarters for some days.
The crooked spire is a fiuniliar
object to travellers to the north;
concerning which spire there is an
ingenious theory, that it is not a
crooked spire at all, but that the
crookedness is an optical delusion.
A dull and stationary town is Ches-
terfield—perhaps the dullest and
most stationary in Englsmd ; but it
is surrounded by a network of
villages— Brampton, Biimington,
DaoeDdh*
dr
Whittmgton, Staveley, &c, where
there is an increasing population.
Staveley has lately made itself fiunons
for its resistance to Unionist tyranny
— presenting a angular admixture
of glimpses of wild sylyan beauty^
with the usual sordid phenomena
that belong to a region of coal-pits
and iron-pits. Now, let me reckon
up the Derbyshire sights which you
can ' do ' from Chesterfield. There
is Bolaoyer Castle, which you may
take on your way to Hardwick HalL
Yon wiU not see a more thoroughly
English park, so well timbered with
gnarled and giant oaks, in all the
country, tiian Hardwick Pack; and
the stciely oldivied hall has as noble
a site as the Great Keep of Wind-
sor itself. The lord of HaidwidL is
the Duke of Dofonahiie; and yoa
hare not been long in Derbysfaire
before yoa disoorer that the Duke
of DeyoBshire is the king of the
country. Other dokes there are
who have diikeries here, as Bol-
Bover Castle, bekmgiDg to the Duke
of Portiand, and Haddon HaU, be-
longing to the Duke of Bntland;
but his grace of Devonshire, who in
Devonshire does not own, I believe,
an acre, is the lord of many a wide
£ur prospect in Derbyshir& The
last reigning duke might have been
Bumamed the Magnificent; he had
hundreds of thousands a year, and
died hundreds*(^ thousands in debt
The present dukei, although little
known to fiuue, is considered by
mai^ people to be the cleverest
man in England. He was Senior
Wrangler, or something of that
kind, at QEunbridge, and was chosen
to succeed the late Prinoe Consort
as Chanoell(»r of the University.
When he was complimented on his
degree, he answered that no par-
ticular credit was due to him, as he
had only given some attention to
studies to which he had been always
partial I The duke inherits both
the genius and the blood of the
philosopher Cavendish.
From Chesterfield it is quite a
manageable walk to Chatsworth.
Chatsworth is almost the imperial
realization of a splendid dream.
The old duke used to delight to
look from his private windows at
the great crowds that used to come
£K>m our industrial centres to spend
a long-lived summer day amid the
glories of his domain. The river
wmds in front of the pi^aoe, beneath
a fine bridge, through the lawn^tike
park^ and the background is formed
by dense woods that climb the hills
and close the horizon. There are
the huge conservatories through
which yon might drive a carriage
and pair, which suggested to Pax*
ton, the Chatsworth heaxl-gardener,
the idea of a Crystid Palace. The
Chatsworth story is, that the future
great man, when a poor lad, gained
the magnifioent duke's patronage
by some adroitness in giving him a
light for a cigar. The gardens are
most elaborately beautifol, and the
treasores of art in the palace, col-
lected reckless Gi cost by a most
skilled virtufm^ have a value very
rarely surpassed; yet, after all, I
think most persons will give the
preference to the less adorned and
more natural beauties of Hardwick.
Haddon Hall, only a few miles from
Chatsworth, is a place of entirely
of^Dosite^ and even antagonistic a^
tEaotion& It has been l(»g dis-
mantled for human habitation, ez-
c^t when there has perchance been
BC«ne festive gathering in this part
of the shire, when once more there
is an illumination through the
ancient windows, and levdiy in the
corridors and halls. But the ez-
qnisiie beauty of tl^ site is always
fireshf the river vrinding in more
sinuous folds than the Asian Ms^
ander; the old stone staircase, the
medifflval court, the lonely clttpel,
the echoing gallery, the prinoely
garden-terrace, the bidden postern-
door, whence the lady, heiress of
the house, stole away with the
lucky page £ar away over the Derby-
shire hills. Not fiur, also, is the
pretfy town of Bakewell, where you
may lounge at leisure over the
bridge ; and if you are staying at
the Butland Arms, you may oUoin
license to fish, and refresh yourself
—at least I did— with a huge veni-
son pasty at my hostel. There is
another hostel, the very ideal of an
Elizabeth inn, at the pretty village
of Eowsley, just outside the Chats-
worth grounds. From Eowsley, a
few minutes in the train will take
40
Dave Dale.
you to the littie oounfcry Tillage of
Matlock, and the fiuhionable little
town of Ifatlock Bath. The scenery
is very good, bnt it is minute, and
the whole of Matlock can comfort-
ably be examined and 'dispofied of
in the oouise of the afternoon. It
is to be mentioned with regret, that
the pretty wator at the biue of tibie
enormons clifb, though called a
river, is often nearlv stagnant, and
ai>pear8 to be considerably peopled
with water-rats. If you go direct
from Chesterfield to Matlock, you
should turn a little aside from the
direct road to see the picturesque
village of Ashover. I have never
seen this village noted in any guide-
book, but in early days I used to
consider the village a kind of Happy
Valley of Basselas ; and in the deep
seclusion and the romantic character
of the scenery, it is very well de-
serving of a visit Tou may go
from Matlock to Buxton by rail;
but you will do better if you take
the road from Bakewell to Buxton.
This road, particularly if the journey
is made in the opposite direction,
is a glorious fait of travel. When
you are at Baxton, you are in the
neighbourhood of the Peak country,
which ought to be thoroughly ex-
plored. At Gastleton you attain the
finest scenery which D^byshire can
boast, and it is quite worth while to
descend the cavern, boat along the
Bubtorranean river, and allow the
guides to show all the different
points, and to tax all their experi-
ments with powder.
These, then, are the most notice-
able points of Derbyshire scenery,
and, whatever else is neelected,
these are not to be omitteoL But
there still remains one beautifol
locality, rather remote and difficult
of access from that remarkable
group of show places for which
Chesterfield or Bakewell is a con-
venient centre, which will amply
repay your visit, and grow upon
you the more your sojourn is pro-
longed. Almost opposite Haddon
Hall, on the road between Bakewell
and Bowsley, a lane strikes up the
country. As you pass along this
lonely road, you cannot fail to be
struck with the thoroughly sylvan,
thoroughly English character of the
landscape. There is something ao
sequestered and untraveUed about
thu route which fulfils every aspi-
ration to those who would dears
something else than the usual worn
paths. The late September days
are most pleasant to travel in; the
air balmy and cool ; but the days
close in early, and the road to Dove
Dale is a very long road, and the
intervening hills are very steep
hills. Almost in the dark, the pony-
carriage— for such was my humUe
conveyance on my most recent
visit— had to go throng a large
pond, depth unknown, on the
opposite side of which the |Mth to
Dove Dale is resumed. Tissmgton,
which breaks the monotony of a
long drive, is a pretty village, and,
in some pointe of view, a memo-
rable village; for here the well
dressings, for which Derbyshire is
memorable, have their chief seat of
celebration. On Holy Thursday,
after prayers in the parish church,
and a sermon duly preached, parson
and parishioners proceed to the dif-
ferent wells, and ttfter that the well-
flowering is performed. A hymn is
sung at eacn well ; and each well
is decked with abundant flowers,
woven into chaplete and designs,
and ^the day is kept as a holiday.
The imagery and associations at-
tached to wells and fountains of
water is of the simplest and most
elevating kind ; and we are glad to
find that this innocent holiday is
treated as a precious reliquary of
the past, and held in due esteem.
When we have left Tissington be-
hind us, we descend down the
steepest and most awkward of hills
into the dale. We are reminded of
the dialogue between Viator and
Fiscator,
ViATOB. 'What have we here— a
church ? As Pm an honest man, a
very pretty church! Have you
churches in this country, sir?*
PisoATOB. ' You see we have : but
had you seen none, why should you
make that doubt, sir ?'
ViATOB. ' \Miy, if you will not be
angry, I'll tell you : I thought my-
self a stage or two beyond Christen-
dom.'
Here, then, is Dove Dale at last,
the loved of such poets as Byron
Dave Dale.
41
and Mcmtgomenr, by snoh men as
Ohantrey and Sir Hnmphry Davy,
by many other fieunons men wboae
names mustbe nnrecorded bere— be-
loved thiongb a wide Gizonit of the
midland shires by youth and maiden
as the pleasantest scene of snmmer
revel— especially beloved by the wor-
thy brotherbood of anglers, * men of
meek and peaceable and gentle na-
toies.' For many miles the river is
the boondary between Derbyshire
and Staffordshire, the walk through
the dale being on the Derbyshire
side. The beautiful scenery of the
dale is some three miles long. It is
not often that scenery so beautifid
is prolonged to sucb continuance.
To walk up the wbole extent, and
zetuTQ and rest a while and examine
minutely the points of the land-
scape, and explore adjacent scenery
that well deserves attention, and
thoroughly to imbibe the spirit of
the beauties and purify of the scene,
like holy matrimony, is a matter to
be not lightly taken in hand, but
ought to be done deliberately and
advisedly. It is a long, winding
valley, and the soft air, with gentle
violence, blows full of balm along
the gorge. The foliage feathers
down to the water's edge, or grassy
hills arise on, often enough, the
bare, dark, precipitous, worn, gi»-
nity tors. Some strike boldly to
the sky, some threateningly bend
forward as if to strike and over-
whelm. Some of these tors break
up into pinnacles, scarps, bulky
fragments that would seem to totter
to their fiedl ; some have been hurled
backward, in the primitive convul-
fiion of nature, and are hollowed into
boles and caves. The stone ferns
are bere ; here, too, is the grey lichen,
and the overgrowth of underwood
is all about. The hazels trail their
boughs in the streams; the clumps
of birch trees adorn the slopes, but
the segregated tors form neither
shadow nor foliage, naked, myste-
rious, stern, defiant Each has its
separate name, many their tradi-
tion, a few their genuine stories of
peril and deathly accident The
constant river laves their bases and
reflects their forms evermore, un-
changed, rapid and clear in its
<x>ur8e, even as the bird, which lends
it a name, shoots, rapid and dear,
through the unclouded sky over-
bead.
The ima^ left by Dove Dale are
of a peculiarly clear and vivid n^-
toze: you have an exact embodi-
ment of the simple poetic vision of
green pastures and still waters.
Nor of these alone. The precipitous
mountain overhangs the prospect,
the gorge closes in, the rocks hang
down their festoons, the high tors
rise, innumerable and fantastia The
dark pure river, dark from its mossy
bed, hurries onwards, growing more
and more silvery on the way, to lose
itself in the broad Trent So narrow
is the path by the marge, made dif-
ficult by the roots of the trees that
spring up by the water side whose
green crowns wave &r below the
summits of the tors, by the protu-
berant hills whose bases are uickly
clustered around by ferns and wild
flowers. Then, the rocks retire back
from the river, and leave a dear
space of lawn, not unprotected by
the shadow of abundant foliage,
where you may realize that old de-
light to which Jlorace and the Ho-
ratian tribe have always been so
prone, stretched on the living turf,
listening to the strain of the living
water. You have a book in your
hand befitting the lazy season and
the enchanted spot, and whether you
read, or whether in thought and re-
verie the book escapes from your
listless grasp, or whether you sleep
under the open eye of heaven, it is
all equally well with you. ' Sleep,
my son ; sleep in the sun is good,'
wrote the old Greek dramatist Is
it merely reverie, or is it the summer
noonday dreun, that the old days of
the seventeenth century are renewed
for you, and yonder httle group,
sitting down on the brink of yonder
shore, assume the garb and talk the
dialect of a long-vanished day? That
good old man, brow so broad, hair
BO silvery, speech so honest and
coorteous, must needs be, methinks,
the well-loved Izaak Walton. That
surely must be the young Izaak, who
is making a sketch of ti^at range of
tors which the country fancy has
called ' The Apostles.' There is an-
other young man there, in sword and
velvet and with courtly phrase, lam
42
Dove Dak.
m&aid with in eye iiiftt imnderB
towards jonder oonntry Ian ; an air
that, thoQgh refined, has something
xeoUeas and dissipated in it, who is
gentleman and seholar andyetreok-
less and uneasy, bat he, too, listens
to the elder man and calls him
':&ther.' He looks over the shonlder
of the yonnger man witii appxoTal
of tiie light tooohea, and mnrmoxB
to himself as he lays his langiud
limbs on the grass—
' Oh > mj beloved oymph, ftlr Dove*
PrinoeaB of rirera ! how I lore
Upon thy flow'ry benks to Ue;
And view thy ulver ttreeiD,
WlMa glided hy tiM wnuBer bcm;
Ah,yesl That most be Charles Cot-
ton, the lord of Beiesfiurd Hall here-
abouts, and yet distraoted by duns
and bailifiBs, and glad to hide, if the
rumoor be true, in a neighbooring
cayenL I am afraid there is a dark
future before him— if eertain ru-
mours be true, prison and suicide;
but just now he is innocent and
happy, tranquillized by the concord-
ant voices of the beloved stream and
*my &tiier Walton.' Tea, the full
river of speech flows from the lips
of the old man eloquent, not other-
wise than as the Dove itself mur-
murs on, musical and rapid. But
in his talk the old man is most in-
tent upon his fishing. He does not
think so much of hui son's little
sketch, a new-fangled and unbusi-
nesB-like amusement most befitting
that idle Italian people of whom
his friend Wotton, the late Vene-
tian ambassador, discourses him so
largely. You do not find in Walton
any poetical, or at least any artistic,
pictorial talk; he never gives you
word-paintings of the river lamd-
Bcapes he knows so well; there is
not even a syllable whispered of
these strange rocks and tors ; trout
and grayling have more solid and
substantial charms in those clear,
wise, twinkling eyes. He ia talking
the talk, which, if we could only set
it down, would bring the early
Stuart days as vividly before us as
Fepys has recalled the later Stuart
times. He is acute and practical
enough, the fiuuvdealing merchant
who keeps the hosiery Stiop at the
comer of Chancery Lane^ and re-
tired on his modest profits to the
rural district of ClerkenwelL He is
telling his friends what capital three
days' fifthing he had last month,
mheai he had his annual holiday at
Slooy uid his friend the worthy
Provost took hhn to his fishing-
lodge at Bkck Pots, and afterwards
showed him Savile^s superb editioQ
of 'Ghxysoatom' intheEtonlihrafy.
Or perhaps he is giving reminis-
cences of a lifSa peculiarly rich in
Buohr— of the days he spent beneath
the beeches of the park of Famham
Castle with the good Bishop of Win-
chester—how in the evil time of the
Commonwealth, on a biting cold
day, he met the great Sanderaon,
and took him into a public-house,
where they had bread and cheeee
and beer together, and the good
bishop told hun how he comforted
his soul in adveraiMes with the
Psalms of David ; how he used to
greet friend Dean Donne Hunter at
SL Paul's ; and how he went down
to the old chureh at Chelsea to hear
the dean preach the foneral sermon
of Lady Danvers, the mother of that
poet and scholar George Herbert,
who, we may feel sure, was likewise
one of the rapt auditory. Wisely,
religiously, and quaintly does he
talk, and there is also a fund of in-
finite observation and delicate hu-
mour about him. likewise those
trout— surely larger andfresherthan
caught now-a-days— will be keenly
looked after, the very worms han-
dled ' as though he loved them,' for
he has an eye to his modest supper
and the cool tankard of sood Diar-
byshire beer which will be its ac-
companiment He will perhaps
quote to his friends the nvounte
text which he took as the motto of
his 'Angler': 'Simon Peter saith,
I go a fishing. Th^ say unto him.
We also go with thee.' Perhaps he
lovingly dwells on the glory <n the
setting or the rising sun, as he did
in his matchless book : ' And this,
and many other like blessings we
eoj/oj daily; and for most of them,
because Uiey be so common, most
men forget to pay their praises ; but
let not us, because it is a sacrifice
so pleasing to Him that made the
Sun, and us, and still protects us,
and gives us flowers and showers
Dave Dale.
48
and stomBchs and meat and content
and IdiBcupe to go a-fiahing/
Thns much is dieamfdl xeyerie
and half memory, half fancy. Yoa
az6 awakened from the images of
the past hy the pleasant, gleefnl
sounds of the living present Kate
and Arabella are havmg a duet, and
the splendid Toioes with trumpet
distinctness sweep through the
gorge. Yon, my young friend, that
saunter by with that silken lady
£ur, I can forgive you that half-
fierce military glance at a mere
listless lounger, because I know you
will be docileand submissive enough
all the afternoon to those fine imd
glancing eyes. Only do not pretend
that you two must spend a whole
hour among the tors pretending to
search for a suitable place for lunch,
when there is none that might not
suit But th<^ do this sort of
thing in Arcadia,* and you two are
Arcades ambo. Yonder stout gentle-
man thinks that tiie finest sight here
will be the sight of the well-spread
lunch cloth on the ground, and he
and the rest of the parties, like Mr.
Tennyson, ' will not shun the foam-
ing grape of Eastern Fiance.' And
hare are the children and maidens
of the place, offering fruits, and
foras, and fiowers, and other me-
mentoes for a happy Dove Dale
time. I wonder to myself if any one
of you is like Wordsworth's Lucy.
I wonder where Lu<^ dwelt Was
it at the picture-village of Dam
yonder, or at Dove-head, where the
fountain of the stream first gushes
forth, or Narrow-dale;, or Hope-dale,
or Mill-dale?
*8bib dwelt among the untrodden -way,
Beride the epringi of Dove.
f A mild whom tbere w«ra none to prate.
And rery ftw to love.
< A Tlolflt by a moaqr stone.
Half hidden from the «3re:
Air aa attar when only one,
la ahlning in the sky.
*8he lived unknown, and few ooold know.
When Jjacj oeaaed to be;
Bat she ia in her graTe, and oh
. The_difference to me I*
I arise up and go to nly hostel,
the Izaak Walton. Ah, my military
friend 1 when you come to my time
of life you will think that a good
dinner indoors is just as enjoyable
and much more comfortable than
out on the grass. I ask carefully
whether lasaak Walton ever really
lived here. They point out to me
what part of the house is modem,and
they take me to a long, low room,
which might have been the room
where he and his friends had their
' evenings/ and it has that steady,
seventeenth-century-look about it,
that I mean to adhere to this belief
and maintain it Anon we must go
to the fishing house which Cotton
built for Walton—read the inscrip-
tions which they read 'piacatori-
bus sacrum,' look through the win-
dows which they looked through,
enjoy as they enjoyed this, ' a kind
of peninsula with a delicate dear
river about it'
BefoTB I conclude this paper I
will quote from my ' Elorilegium ' a
fine passage I reoentiy disinterred
from a work now littie read. In
Goldsmith's ' Animated Nature,'
which was mere bookwork concocted
for the booksellers, we suddenly
meet with a beautiful passage in re-
ference to Izaak Walton which
might well compaie with the
choicest parts of ' The Traveller ' or
'Deserted Village': 'Happy Eng-
land! where the sea funushes an
abundant and luxurious repast, and
the fresh waters an innocent and
harmless pastime ; where the angler,
in cheerful soUtude, strolls by the
edge of the stream and fears neither
the coiled snake nor the lurking
crocodile; where he can retire at
night, with his few tronts— to borrow
the pretty description of old Wal-
ton—to some friendly cottage, where
the landlady is good and the daugh-
ter innocent and beautiful; where
the room is cleanly with lavender in
the sheets and twenty ballads stuck
about the wall ! There he can e^joy
the company of a talkative brother
sportsman, have his trout dressed
for supper, tell tales, sing old tunes,
or make a catch ! There he can talk
of the wonders of nature with
learned! admiration, or find some
harmless sport to content him, and
pass away a little time, without of-
fence to Gkxl or injury to man.'
P. A.
4i
THE BEOMPTON HOSPITAL FOE CONSUMPTION.
I SUPPOSE there are few of ns
who have not notioed that pa-
latial building abutting on Onsloir
Square, in the Brompton Bead,
which is, in fact, one of the hand-
somest and most intaresting of Lon-
don hospitals, and which both
testifies and appeals to large-hearted
charity, in that noble phrase, dear
to every patriotic Englishman,
* Supported by voluntary contri-
butions.' There have been few
hours more sadly pleasant than
those which I have spent in the re-
peated inspection of the hospital
and in fiuniliarizinK myself with its
most interesting details. To me
those trim gardens, those spacious
wards, those long galleries, that
exquisite chapel, are as interesting
as could be any picture-gallery,
palace, or museum in ail Europe.
There is a human interest also, of a
strong personal and dramatic kind,
which can never be realized in any
delineation of fictitious sufifering.
In the thought of the suffering alle-
Tiated, the consolations conferred,
the useful knowledge stored up by
such an institution, there must be
a source of the deepest gratification
to evenr lover of his kind.
But let me first tell a plain story
very plainly. A generation ago it
was generally thought that con-
sumption was altogether an in-
curable disease. The hospitals were
altogether laJack to open their gates
to cases hopeless and helpless.
Those institutions could hardly
afford to receive the inmate whose
case would be long, lingering, and
ultimately fatal. But it was lelt by
kindly hearts that this very set of
circumstances was such as to give
the poor sufferer a peculiar claim
on sympathy and kindness. The
tremendous preponderance of chest
diseases over all other diseases filled
the country with patients whose
simple direful histories made them
worthy recipients of the benefits of
such an institution. It so provi-
dentially happened that about the
time that this hospital arose a
very remarkable stride was made by
medical science in the treatment of
this disease. About the year 1840
a litUe work, published by a pro-
vincial medical man, Mr. Bodington,
of Sutton Ck)ldae]d, indicated «
simple and decided curative method,
and even medical science, that had
been skilful in diagnosis but mainly
despairing and feeble in treatmentp
grappled with great energy with
the difficulties presented by such
cases, devising many palliatives and
even methods of cure in the earlier
stages. Oonsequently the hospital
was commenced under happy au-
guries, and has eigoyed a long
career of extensive usefulneaB.
Every means of core or alleviation
that human ingenuity could suggest
or unstinted liberally procure has
been freely tried. No comfort or
even expensive luxury is withheld
if, in medical opinion, it is likely to
prove benefioiu. I see that even
champagne is administered in some
cases, a wine that stands high on
the list of medicines. Looking down
the report, I noticed that some good
Christian had sent the hospital
sundry presents of champagne.
And those who have an unlimited
enjoyment of wines, fruit, and game
would perhaps have better appetites
and better digestion if they knew
that they had sent off basket or
hamper to our hospital. It must
be quite a paradise to poor patients.
With narrow means, in ill-Tenti-
lated dwellings, they have scanty
chances of recovery, and suddexily
they are transferred to a palatial
abode, where the best medical skill
in London is at their disposal —
where the best food and medicine
are regularly supplied— where every
circumstance of diet, clothing, tem-
perature, is accurately tested — and
where pleasant occupation and re-
laxation are abundantiy provided.
Indeed if I were to hint any criti-
cism on the management of the
institution, which I should do with
the utmost diffidence, I should
imagine that on the whole the treat-
ment generally is of too generous
and stimulative- a kind. I am
afraid that th^ must feel the con-
trast very keenly when their term^
The Bromplon Eosj^talfor Camumjptian.
45
three months, in rare instances pro-
longed to six— is completed, and
they have to retom to their own
homes. Great efforts have been
made to mitigate and improve the
condition of the patients both before
and after their admission as actual
inmates. A period of from two to
ten weeks ordinarily elapses be-
tween the giving of a letter of recom-
mendation and the admission of a
patient But the recommended
person at once becomes an ontr
patient; and some benevolent ladies
are now conducting an auxiliary
institution at the Manor Houee,
Chelsea. This institution is de-
signed for those who are waiting
their turns for admission to the
hospitaJ, or who, after leaving i1^
shall need a refuge till they can
re-establish their health or find
suitable employment They have
a cheerful home, with a large shel-
tered garden, and the use of a good
kitchen, but they have to provide
their own means of living until a
larger expansion of Christian plans
permits an extension of tins as of
many other Christian schemes. A
simikr institution is the Boee Fund
in connection with the hospital.
Mr. Philip Bose had so large a
share in the origin and progress
of the hospital that he may be
justly regarded as its founder. It
was very natural that his associates
in; this good work should desire
some permanent commemoration of
it in a portrait for the new board-
room, and a subscription was
rapidly filled up for this desirable
purpose. But when the good man
heard of it he earnestly requested
that the design might be aban-
doned, and the subscription went
towards a Bose Fund to give help
in money and clothing to patients
leaving the hospital. There is only
one addition which we should much
desire to see made to the admirable
accessories to the hospital. We
should very much like to see a con-
valescent hospital on the cottage
plan, which on the whole appears
to us preferable to the ordinary
plan, established in some desirable
neighbourhood on the south coast
The other day, passing through the
Underoliff of the Isle of Wight, I
noticed the building of snob a cot-
tage hospital in progression, and I
believe that there are similar insti-
tutions at Bournemouth, Seaford,
and other places ; and I should like
to see one, on a large scale, directly
affiliated to the Brompton Hospital.
We will now stroll about the hos-
pital and go a little into details.
We see the patients, feeble folk, like
the coneys, sunning themselves in
the grounds or resting on the
benches. They have been saved any
stress of exertion by the use of the
lift; and the hospital lift, unlike
those at some great hotels, is never
out of order. You may enter into
converse with the iomates; but I
need hardly say that any conversa-
tion of this kind must be managed
with skill and delicacy. Any com-
munity of suffering will at once
create a kind of freemasonry. Part
of the ground floor, on a level with
the gardens, contains the dispensary
and the rooms for out-patients. The
number of these out-patients has
rapidly increased from year to year,
as the great advantages of the insti-
tution have become apparent ; and
at the present time they can hardly
fall much short of the rate of ten
thousand annually. The only draw-
back to this is to be found in the
reflection that very many persons
will be resorting to this chanty who
can wdl afford to pay a doctor of
their own— a serious and growing
detriment to the medical profession.
The remedy is that the governors
should be cautious in issuing their
letters of recommendation. This
department is now quite separate
from the house. The ventilation is
by means of an ingenious apparatus
invented by Dr. Neil Amott. They
also make a point of using fires in
addition to this apparatus for the
sake of cheerfulness and warmth.
Gftie same steam serves the kitchen,
warms the baths, turns the spit,
grinds the coffee, and raises the
lift The temperature, pleasant and
equable, is carefully maintained. It
is very pleasant to move about the
long, spacious, well-lighted corri-
dors. For a short time yon might
even forget that you were in a hos-
pital at fdl, and think that you were
lounging in a pleasant gallery d^
46
The BrmiqpUm EcBjpikdfor Caiuumjdion.
dgned for lecsreatioiL T<ra feel this
especially in the loirar floor, dengned
for female imnates, adorned with to
many little feminine graoes. They
aie walking aboat, chatting to-
gether on easy diaira and soft
oonefaai. There are bookabelTeB
about wiili wdl-wom books there-
on ; leligioaB literatnre, nsefol lite-
ratuxe, and also a feir amount of
noyels and newspapers. They take
in both dailies and weeklies alscs and
they shall have at least this monthly
magazine as well The chaplain
says that there is always a demand
for litexatore, and that books and
periodicals prove most acceptable
presents. £aeh gallery has sepa-
rate bookcases, which divide ofif the
general ccmtents of the library.
It is a pleasant sight to see the in-
mates at tea, such of them, at least,
as are able to gather together to
tiie social meal in the gallery. It is
a very sodal meal at the hospital
Formerly the dietary consisted only
of coffee or cocoa, but now tea and
bnttar have been added, and tea and
batter are most important items in
the evening meal of the poor. These
worthy people have also a passion
for watercreeses. They have to bny
their watensresses^ bat then, in the
purchase of watercreeses, even a
halfpenny goes a long way. Many
of them have solids ordeied in ad-
dition. The tables are frequently
adorned with flowers, perchance the
gift of kindly Mend& But even at
this time we see the forms of the
medical attendant and his clinical
clerk flittmg through the gallery to
thedifiSarent wards. Theinmateshave
the advantage of the constant atten-
tion of an excellent chaplain, and the
supervision of a committee, kind-
hearted and sympathising. Every
Monday evming, from January to
May, entertainments axe given to
them, lectures, dissolving views,
readings, music, l^ierdemain, &c. ;
and it is satisfactory to know that
the committee are satisfied that they
have proved eminently saocessful in
cheering and enlfveniug the patients.
The second floor is given up to the
men ; the attics to the nurses and
servants; the lower rooms to the
clinical aariBtants. The west wing
is called the Yictoria gallery, and
her giadoQS Majesty has not only
been the patroness, but always the
firm friend of the institution. The
gallery of the east wing is called the
Jenny Lind gallery: it wfll be re-
membered howmunificently Madame
Goldschmidt gave the brilliant ser-
vices which enibbled the committee
to begin this part of the edifice. On
the second floor, the gallery is called
after Prince Albert, who in 1844
laid the foundation-stone of the hos-
pitaL The east gallery is most de-
servedly named aftnr the Bev. Sir
Henry Foulis. Sir Henry also
built, at his own expense, the ex-
quisite chapel attached to the hos-
Eital. It is luxuriously fitted up,
ut in the peculiar case of an in-
valid congregation, luxury becomes
a necessily. The chajMl might well
belong to some collegiate or cathe-
dral edifice; a dim, religioua light
is Bufldsed through the painted
glass ; modest ornamentation is not
wanting, and the building has a
thoroughly eccledastioal character.
There is, of course, a very gmt
difference among the patients. Some
are so exceedingly ill that they are
unable to leave their rooms and
only come here to die. Such
thoroughly hopeless cases ought
very rarely to be admitted, as in
very advanced cases the treatment
must ful to benefit the sufferers,
must depress their fellow-patients,
and will probably be ezclndiDg a
more hopeful cases. At other times
the disorder has made such a slight
advance that it is almost difficult to
believe that they are really ill. With
all of them there seems to be the
same cheerful, submissive, grateful
converse; fervent acknowledgments
of the kindness they receive, and the
evidence of that softeoiing, purifying
result so often produced by a pro-
longed illness. Sometimes in the
case of a tall, graceful girl, the
hectic flush is hardly to be dis-
tinguished frcm youthful loveli-
ness. It has alwavs been noted
how consumption has a natural
affinity for the fiurest blossoms. No-
thing can be more gratifying than to
detect the genuine blush of return-
ing health. Most pitiable is the
case of littie children, very little
ohfldren indeed, who are suffering
The Brom^pUm EotpUalfor Comumj^ion.
47
in fheir chests. They die off, like
the floweis of the field, almost as
peaoefally and nnoonsdons of dan-
ger. I hare had some interesting
cozLTersation with patients. One,
I lememher, had been a shopman
in a yery ftshionable draper's shop
in the West-end. The work inTolyed
late honis, bad air, constant move-
ment, and the lifb'ng of heavy
weights. I imagine that diapers'
assistants, as a class, are yery Imble
to phthisu. The same canses are,
however, operating towards the same
result in a variety of directions.
Work too proloped, and the want
of open raeatmng- spaces; work-
shops and dweUlDg-honseB ill-con-
stmcted, overorowded, nnventilated,
are main canses; sometimes heredi-
tary weakness, or casnal illness,
perhaps of that most snspioiona
kind, a neglected cold.
I snppose that, as a rale, nothing
can be drier or more nnneoessary
reading than to look over the list of
snbscnptions and donations to a
charity; yet as I looked over this
list I fonnd in it many points of
interest I see, for instance, that at
the ikshioDable chnrch which ahnost
adjoins the chapel very large smns
have been collected, which makes
the incumbent a governor almost to
an unlimited extent Then I see how
much the poet Bobert Montgconery
did for the institution. One of the
wards, I observe, is called after his
nama He was not a good poet, but
still he was not so bad a poet as
Macaulay made him] out to be; for
in that case his poons would not
have run through so many editions.
But he was a good man, and did
good work as a clergyman and theo-
logical writer. His sympathies were
enthusiastically enlisted on behalf
of the chapel; and I am sure that
Macaulay, who in his later years
had an increasing passion for bene-
volence, on this ground would have
co-operated heart and soul with the
man whom he reviewed too slash-
ingly to be altogether just I see
here a laige subscription from a
very gifted man. I am much afraid
that his own chest is fax from sound,
and thus we have the effect of the
blessed bond of sympathy. I see a
man subscribing an unwonted sub-
scription for one of his hard chanc-
ter; but I know how he has lost the
flowerets of his own home, and this
tells me something. Again and again
I notice sums ' From an In-Patient,'
< From an Out-Patient' Let no man
say that gratitude is an extinct
virtue. The sums are modest, but
the love has been deep and prompt
Here is a list of preachers. I ob-
serve that the largest sum raised at a
collection was after a sermon by the
Bishop of Oxford, except perhaps,
the Bishop of Peterborough. I be-
lieve it is calculated that the bishop
can get in this way just as much
monoy again as anybody else. I see
that our political leaders subscribe.
Lord I>en>y, Lord Stanley, Mr. Dis^
raeli. Earl Bussell; lit^nury man,
like Dickens and Buskin; artists,
as Mlllais, and so an. Some of the
entries are affecting enough. Thus,
'In Memory of G. P. ilL, loooZ.'
Then we have ' A Thank-offering,'
in remembrance, perhaps, of a hi^py
recovery. Then, again, we have a
large sum under the head ' Offerings
to Ahnighty God in the house of
J. W. B., whose death was occasioned
by abscess in the lungs.' Then
comes an anonymous thousand
pounds from one who will not let
ner left hand know what her ri^t
handdoeth. There are several sub-
scriptions with the affecting words
' In memoriam,' or ' In memory of
Annie H., from her sorrowing pa-
rents.' Then some one slips a five-
pound note into the ahn's box, ' God's
gift to his poor.' The initial letters
of the alpluibet are very liberal ; and
large sums come in from that ever-
useful being, 'A Friend,' who repeat-
edly proves himself to be a friend
indeed. The CSty Gompanies] come
out nobly. What glimpses and
glances of sorrow and goodness do
we obtain, which indeed I should
hesitate to bring out from their
almost privacy, save that the fra-
grance of their example may be
rid abroad— the Dngrance of
ointment be diffused.
And if society maintains this pa-
latial hospital, it must be recollected
also t^t the hospital does much for
society. .It must oe remembered also
how, in its thoughtiessness and ex-
travagance, or by its stem, necessary
48
Hie BrampUm EoipUatfor Oomamptum.
commands, sodely does mtioh to
feed the hospice with the TictimB of
oonsnmptioiL The poor mechanic,
inhaling the poiBonons dnst, or (wr-
chance the sempstiefle, working
through the night in disohedienoe
to the Iaw of the land, bat obeying
the more inexorable law of fEusnion
and its wants, haye sent their con-
tribntories to the disabled ranks of
the diseased. This is one of the
reasons why the wealthy should
largely contribate to such an object.
Those especially who, perchance in
Italian homes, or in sonthem isles,
are drooping with hectic languish-
ing, will surely haye some chord of
sympathy touched for those afflicted
thus ; and assuredly their costly re-
medies will not be less efficacious if
th^ thus propitiate heayen with
chfi^iy and self-denial. It would
not be difficult to proye to demon-
stration how such an hospital is most
helpful to the yital mterests of
society. It affords a school of me-
dical study for the most complex,
insidious, and widely peyalent of
disorders. Its medical offices are
yalued as posts of honour ; its expe-
rience is of the highest importance
to students, and attendance here is
accepted by great institutions as an
integral part of medical education.
It may be said that the cure of
consumption is the greatest problem
in therapeutics ; and if eyer a cure
is to be discoyered it will be, in aU
probabiliiiy, through that process of
careful obeeryation and accurate in-
duction which can only be secured by
a yast hospital of this kind. Formy
own part 1 hardly doubt, but some-
where in the realm of nature there
is an antidote to tubercle as sure as
the discoyered prophylactic against
smaU-pox. Then, through the ao-
cnmulation of facts, some happy
genius wiQ reach to a dim surmise,
and then to a daring guess, and
afterwards to a scientific yerification.
This belongs to that wisdom which
is hidden on eyery side around us,
that man by searching may find it
out Already the progress of me-
dical knowledge in recent years has
been most maryellous in deyising
yarions pallialiyes for this illness,
and in eneoting its curability in the
earlier stages; and we may yenture
to belieye that remedies of a more
specific character than those hitherto
atteined may befoii long be dis-
coyered. And albeit it may be some
happy accident, like Newton*s fall-
ing apple, or Jenner s discoyery of
inoculation, that may lead to the
greatest Eureka of modem medicine,
yet it is more consonant with probar
bilities and experience that such a
glorious result should accrue ficom
the methods of reasoning and obser-
yation practised at the Brompton
medical school of consumption. It
may be said that ahcady modes of
treatment haye be^i tried, remedies
tested, experiments made, results
registered, that haye been of the
highest practical importance in the
diagnosis and treatment of this
disease throughout the country. So
true is it that in our complex system
of sodety there is a wonderful ^stem
of reciprocal good or eyil. All mem-
bers suffer or rejoice with ibe suffer-
ing and rejoicing member ; and the
g(3den deeds that ascend heayen-
wards in acts of charity descend in
fertilizing showers of mercy upon
the earth, both on the just and on
the uiuust, ihe eyil and the good.
F. A.
49
DESIDEEIA !
IS it for this my life has weary grown,
And yellow leaf instead of bloom appears?
For ihiB, that care upon my head has thrown
The early snow, that tells of early tears?
Is it for this I seem so lonely now,
Though he is ever near and at my side.
To tempt me towards despair, and tell me how
My days are narrow'd and the world so wide?
The day is dearest, when the daylight's dying,
And sorrow sweetcNst, if she's softly sighing
Low to my heart, forget
All that is past— bnt yet.
Is it for this?
Is it for this I gave them up my hand
Becanse they preach'd to me of duty so?
A hand exchanged for laces and for land ;
For old Sir Thomas was thrown in, yon know.
Is it for this he stifled me with furs.
And wedged my fingers knnckle-deep with rings.
And broaght me down among his cows and ours,
A wife, but with what wild imaginings !
The days seem longer when the moonlight lingers.
And will not touch the landscape with her fingezs.
So that each tender ray.
Deep to my heart can say,
Ls it for this?
Is it for this I'tc said farewell !— farewell !
Sweet love lie burled, for you may not wake?
Bear murdered love, as these worn eyes will tell
As tears repentant irom mine eyelids shake.
For this I sit surrounded by his plate.
And wish myself the time a beggar-maid.
For this respect grows daily nearer hate,
And still the debt of duty is not paid.
The gloaming's tenderost when I am lonely ;
For then to me the breezes whisper only
Soft to my soul, regret
Dies in the end ; but yet.
Is it for this?
Is it for this the children I could kiss
About my knees and bosom cannot cling.
And call me woman's sweetest name : for this
Hushed is the lullaby my lips would sing.
Ah, me ! what might have been were doubly dear
Both for its love and its anzieiy ;
For I would rather love and starve a year
Than live in wealth unloved eternally.
My life soems sweeter when I dream I'm nearer
The end of all, thjEui all things which is dearer;
Then will my parting breath
Whisper, come kindly death.
It is for this I
C. W. S.
VOL, XVI. -NO. XCT.
60
IN THE HEAET OF THE EABTH.
I THINK we created some excite-
ment at Falmouth. Unconven-
tional in our attire, merry in our
deportment^ excited in our de-
meanour, and altogether imbued
with that excellent Mark Tapleian
philosophy of being 'jolly under
any drcumstanoes,' it is small
wonder that we did create some
excitement at Falmouth. We have
none of us a word to say against
Falmouth — a charming, health-
giving, and delightful spot, in
the most beautiful of all English
counties, Cornwall,— indeed, we are
all of us inclined to mark with a
white stone the day that the Fal-
mouth expedition was proposed in
a certain smoking room, of which
history knoweth not, but individuals
a very great deal. The little army
that invaded the place of which I
am speaking, where the sea is of the
bluest and the harbour of the
grandest description, was mixed in
its tastes, talent, and temper. In
this consisted our jollity. We gave
and took; smothered our absur-
dities; advertised our excellences*
offended no one, and seldom laid
ourselves open to giving offence. 1
am not egotistical, for I am speak-
ing of the party in its collective
form. We behaved prettily on all
occasions. It was too hot to put
ourselves out of temper, and the
society too pleasant to suggest
boredom. If young Cecil, the bud-
ding poet, chose to read Tennyson's
Idylls— backed up most strongly
by Isaline Langworthy, with the
fair hair and blue eyes— on the
pleasant cliff underneath the castle,
we raised no objection. Those who
cared to hear Cecil spout listened ;
and tiiose who detested poetry went
to sleep. If the famous Farqua-
harson, briefless barrister, orator,
and sucking politician, choFC to dis-
cuss Mr. John Stuart Mill and the
female franchise, women's rights
and the rest of it— backed up most
strongly by Maude Carruthers, with
the raven hair and olive complexion
— we allowed him to rap his
knuckles on the table, and talk us
into a semi-idiotic state of stupor.
If Harry Armstrong found delight
in bringing his London manners
into Cornwall, and preferred the
socie^ of a certain soft-eyed littlo
divinity who sold newspapers and
gum-arabic in the town to our
sweet society, we allowed him to
make excuses for deserting us,
and, with the exception of a
little innocent and unavoidable
'chaff,' he was free to 'spoon'
all day in the stationer's shop
for aught we cored. We excused
Lilian Comer's scales and morn-
ing exercises, for the sake of her
Heller, Hiller, Schubert, and
Chopin ; her tarantellas, moonlight
sonatas, and reveries, vriib. which we
were favoured in the evening if we
behaved ourselves very prettily.
The 'irrepressible Edgar,' as we
used to call the youngest male
member of our community, was
allowed to give full vent to his
overflowing spirits all day long, pro-
vided he woke us betimes in the
morning to get our matutinal plunge
in the blue waters that curled them-
selves refreshingly into 'Summer
Cove.' And what of our host and
hostess ? Theirs indeed was a rule
of love ; and as they allowed us to
do exactly as we liked, we were the
more considerate in meeting their
wishes and pulling all together.
We had vainly imagined that we
had seen everything worth seeing
in the environs of Falmouth, and
enjoyed ourselves as much as is
consistent with human nature,
when our party received a valuable
addition. A certain sweet song-
stress of whom the world has heard,
and of whom the world will ere
long hear a great deal more, came
down amongst us to breathe her
native air, and get new inspirations
and health from the woods and
caverns, and rocks and sea-music,
with which we were surrounded.
But the songstress did not come
alone. She brought her sweet
voice and all our old pet songs;
the songs set to words which were
poetry, and the words wedded to
music which breathed of love, and
was therefore quite unsaleable ; she
In the Heart cf the Earth.
51
biought her cheery manner and
her indomitable plack — ahe has
been in the saddle daring the late
American campaign for days and
days, has this sweet soDgstress of
mine,— and she broaght her brother.
Her brother was snoh a good
fellow that I mnst really introduce
him with a little bit of a preface. He
was, if I may make nse of an ex-
proasion, most pusszling at sohooli
and most nsefol in after life— a
walking oxymoron. He was an
Englishman, and not an English-
-man. An Englishman he was in
heart, and speech, and bearing ; bat
destiny had stolen him away from
his native land years ago, to shed
his cheeriness on other dimes.
So mnch, howerer, did he lave
the old ooantry, that once in every
three or four years he wended his
way hack again^-the Incky swal low !
— ^his pockets fall of gold, and his
heart fall of loTe, to spend a holi-
day in England and a httle fortune
in generosity.
Daring tiiese holiday trips he
never Utft his aster or bis parents;
and as his sister and his parents
had chosen to ran down to Fal-
mouth, like a dntifdl fellow, Wash-
ington followed them thither.
We were at bieakfiBMBt when Wash-
ington burst in upon us at Fal-
mouth; and breakfiBst at Falmouth
was not such an early meal as it
might have been. With that gene-
rosity and unselfishness which is
charaeleristic of Englishmen, I will
at once exculpate the whole male
portion of our party.
The irrepressible Edgar was
bound to wake us in the morning ;
and we were always on our backs
in the sea by eight o'clock. But
the women! oh, those dear women!
Well, generally speaking, we had
but little to complain o£ They
were cheerful, and bore the &tigue
which strong-legged men not un«
frequently impose upon fragile wo-
men without a murmur ; but they
were not proof against the nightly
exercise of that highly necessary,
but eminently female organ, the
human tongue I At ten o'clock, de-
ceptive yawns ware chorussed forth,
to take us off our guard, and per-
suade us to allow them to go to
bed. Not an objection was urged.
The poet perhaps looked somewhat
more lachrymose than usual, and
the orator came to a dead stop in an
able harangue on the 'Female
Franchise;' but Isaline's hand was
squeezed iby the poet, and Maude's
eyes followed by the orator, without
another murmur at ten o'clock.
I am bound to confess that I don't
altogether consider that the poet or
the orator were quite fairly Seated.
Ten minutes after Isaline and Maude
had disappeared in a bevy of beauty,
the strangest, wildest, and most dis-
cordant noises proceeded from the
upper regions.
That strange freemasonry of wo-
men which exists solely and entirely
in the upper regions, at a time
which should be devoted to sleep
and rest, puts aside all thoughts
of weariness previously assumed.
Then conunence the monkey-tricks
of women. They wrestle and they
plunge, tb^ damce fandangoes in
limited attire, they vie with one
another in feats of agUity and fancy ;
they talk, they do one another's
hair, they do anything but that for
which they left the sweet society of
niales^go to sleep !
The consequence is that, having
devoted the freshest part of the
night to folly, they have to devote
the smallest part of the night to
sleep. And when the morning
comes, the great hungry men,
ravenous from fresh air and salt
water, have to fling pebbles and sand
and gravel up at the windows in the
upper regions, from which the tan-
talizing syrens will never emerge.
And so it came about that Wash-
ington found us at breakfast at an
unorthodox hour, and we all got
outrageously chaffed. We very soon
saw that there were to be no half-
measures with Washington. He did
not intend allowing the grass to
grow under his feet His stay in
England was limited, and that which
had to be done was evidently to be
' done quickly.'
I must say that, up to the time of
Washington's arrival, we had not
made the most of our tim& In the
little smoking room in which the
expedition had been arranged, all
sorts of excursions and drives^ and
B a
62
In ike Heart of the Earth.
pic-nics and sails, had been mapped
out
Bnt once at Falmouth, vre
dreamed away our time. It was
yeiy pleasant. We bathed till
break&st, and basked till lunch, and
lounged till dinner, and sang and
strolled till tea, and talked till bed-
time ; and so day after day slipped
away, and Washington found us
at breakfast prepared for another
day's dream.
I suppose we wanted a leader.
Energy— that is to say, personal
energy— was out of the question.
Washington assumed the yacant
dlrectorato and led us. It was a
case of
'IbimusI Iblmns! ntcumque precedes WasU-
iDgton.'
To tell the truth, it was Wash-
ington who persnaded me to go
into the heart of the earth.
He did not begin rashly or im-
petuously. He did not frighten me
with an accurate description of the
' man-engine,* and the * bucket,' and
the interminable ladders ; but in a
light and airy way — before all the
girls, by-the-by— he led the conver-
sation gently up to mmes and
mining adventures. He told us
how the Princess of Wales, and a
talented contributor to 'Punch,'
had been down the Botallack ; and
then taking stock of me, after a
preliminary examination of my bi-
ceps and a general examination of
other muscular deyelopments, he
asked me how I should like to be
introduced to the Wheal Isabel.
* Of all things in the world,' I said,
' provided she be young and good-
looking. But why Wheal? Is it
a sign of endearment or a token of
respect ? Am I to understand from
the mysterious word Wheal that
Isabel is a Cornish Countess, or a
Gipsy Queen? Introduce me to the
Wheal Isabel? Certainly! Wheal
or woe Isabel, could anything un-
fortunate be synonymous with such
a charming appellation ?'
' Hold hard 1' he said ; * this Cor-
nish air of ours has filled you too
full of ozone. Restrain your ardour.
Isabel is not an enchanting maiden
fioshioned by your poetical ima-
gination. She is no gardener's
daughter, no maid of Tregedna, no
coast mermaiden, no Cornish beauty.
8he[i8 black, deep, dirty, and ter-
rible. She will cause you a ten-
mile ride, trouble, fatigne, and some
little expense ; but the Wheal Isabel
is worth knowing.'
' In heaven's name, then,' said I,
' who or what is she ?'
' The Wheal Isabel/ said he, ' is
one of the largest mines in this
magnificent district; and if you
would like to be introduced to her
you shall.'
' Coal ?* said I, shuddering.
' Or tin ?' echoed the mucilaginous
Armstrong.
' Gold, no doubt,' whispered Isa-
line in my ear.
' Nonsense,' said Washington ;
' copper.'
I very soon saw that at this very
early period of the entertainment
there was no getting out of an
introduction to Wheal Isabel.
The curiosity of the women was
fairly aroused. And that was quite
enough.
In an instant the programme was
mapped out entirely to the satisfac*
tion of the girls. Wo were all to
ride over to the Wheal Isabel under
the mentorship of Washington, and
I was to be the unhappy victim
sacrificed on the copper altar.
Friend Washington, who, at one
time, had been all cockahoop about
the dangers and daring of the expe-
dition, got out of it, or rather of the
fatiguing part of it, with that irri-
tating air of indifTerence peculiar
to leaders of expeditions.
'You know, my dear fellow, I
have seen these kind of things so
often before, that it is really hardly
worth while the trouble of changing
one's clothes for it,' said he, with
that charming tone of superiority
which is so comforting to the man
who knows that he is about to make
a fool of himself for tho benefit of
his fellow-creatures. ' But I would
advise you to go down,' he added,
suspicious that I would back out of
it at the last moment. ' You will
never regret it.'
And then he cleverly magnified
me into a hero, whereat the girls
said pretty and complimentary
things, and the expedition was
In the Eeart of (he Earth.
63
€nal]y arranged. Oar cayalcade
was not altogether pretty to look
at, bat I think it may be safely
tanned a good one to go. Falmouth
WBS not great in saddle-horses. ,
We had a 'bos-horse, a hearse-
horse, a fly-horse, a wall-eyed horse,
and a broken pummel. With these
excellent assistants to a ten-mile
ride along the Cornish roads, we
Marted, amidst much laughter of
parents, and cheering of neighbour-
ing butcher boys, on our journey to
the Wheal Isabel.
Very black and barren grew the
land as we neared the Queen of
Oopperdom. The trees somehow
or other left off growing; the fields
seemed sown with ashes instead of
grass; tall chimneys emitted huge
Yolumes of smoke, and deserted
shafts, broken wheels, and grimy-
looking monsters met us at every
turn.
When four cross roads met amidst
A labyrinth of shafts and out-houses
in the centre of a blackened heath
we drew rein.
* I think this must be the place/
said Washington. Ho was right.
A stalwart Ck>rni8hman came out to
meet us, and to him we presented
our credentials, addressed to the
Captain of the Mine.
The captain was somewhat dis-
appointed, I think, when he found
that we were not all to be indoc-
trinated into the mysteries of min-
ing. Miners are after all bat men,
ssaa the laughing merriment of our
joyous girls had abready won over
the rough heart of the honest
miner.
' No, it is only this gentleman,*
said the treacherous Washington,
with the old tone of superiority
4igain. ' I have been down mines
scores of times.'
This was all very well of Washing-
ton vaunting his superiority in this
way, but why should he, by impli-
-oation, assert that I was a fool be-
cause I was a novice, and because I
had not been down a mine ?
I was quite prepared to go through
all the dirty work, but I wanted to
be thought a hero, not a jackass.
The girls stood by me bravely.
Their sympathy relieved me from
4K>me of the humiliation I felt, and
th^ seemed determined, at all
events, that I should not go down
into the heart of the earth without
a cheer.
I was handed over to the tender
mercies of a sub-captain, who hinted
that it would be as well if two other
miners were told off ps a private
escort, to guard me through the
lower regions.
' It's as well to have two or three
with you, sir,' said he; ' they treat
you with more respect down below,
and they're a rough lot, I can tell you.'
I assented, of course. At such a
time it would, by no manner of
means, be politic to dissent from
anything or anybody.
For the next hour or so my life
was in the hands of the slaves of
the Wheal Isabel.
The sub-captain led me into a
little out-house, where he personally
superintended my toilette. I had
imagined that it would merely be
necessary to put a rongh canvas suit
over my ordinary clothes. But I was
very soon disabused of this notion.
' We must have everything off,
sir,* said my guide, in a soothing
medical tone, as if he were about to
operate on me. 'It's an awfully
dirty place down there.'
The costume will bear descrip-
tion. I was first encased in flannel,
clean, of course ; and over this came
an old clay-stained, muddy, stiff
miner's suit My feet were wrapt
in two flannel dusters and then
thrust into a pair of old miner's
shoes, miles too big for me. On my
head was placed a very stiff billy-
cock hat, literally as hard as iron,
smeared with tallow grease. On the
brim in front the captain dabbed a
lump of clay, and into this he stuck
a farthing rushlight. About half a
dozen more rushlights were sus-
pended to my waist, and I was then
pronounced ready for action.
On our way across the open to
the hat in which our party was
resting, my attendant asked me
which way I intended to go down.
Asked me, indeed I as if I knew
what the good fellow was talking
about. I was only anxious not to
look a fool and to do exactly what
I was told. I must own that I felt
a perfect child in his hands.
5i
In the Heart of (he Barth,
' Will yon go down/ said he, 'by
the ladders, or by the bncket, or by
the man-engine ?*
He might jnst as well have asked
me the Hindostanee for Wheal
Isabel.
* The ladders,' said he, by way
of explanation, ' are the most tiring
and the most tedious. Yon will
take a good hour to get down by
the ladders. The bucket is a dirty
way of going down ; besides, in this
mine, it is used alone for bringing
up the rubble and the ore, and any
interference with this arrangement
stops the working of the mine.
Now the man-engine is the quickest
way, and it is the way all the men
here go down. Would you like to
try it?' and then he added, looking
at me, * but you must be rery careful.'
This was the first suggestion that
had been made to me that there was
any danger in my undertaking.
Now the principle of the bucket
and the ladders I naturally under-
stood, but I had no more idea what
a man-engine was than the man
in the moon. My mentor, for some
mysterious reason of his own, kept
on quietly pressing the superior ad-
vantage of the man-engine. And so
I consented. If I had only known
then, at that quiet moment, away
from the laughing girls and the
heroic Washington, what I was un-
dertaking, and the mortal agony I
was about to endure, my prudence
would most certainly have got the
better of my pride, and I should
have been whizzed quietly down in
the dirty bucket.
But as it was, in my ignorance
and in the innocence of my heart,
I decided : for the man-engine ; and
in a minute more I was ushered
into the hut
My quaint appearance was the
signal for a loud burst of laughter.
Some would ' never have known me,
would you ?' others pronounced me
a fright; but one little soft angelic
Yoice declared me to be 'a hand-
some young miner.'
'You're sure you are all right?'
said the same little confiding voice.
' Have you had some brandy ?'
' All right,' said I, feeling very
pale. ' I should think so. Particu-
larly now.'
' But how are you going down ?'
said the sweet voice ; ' the captain
has been telling us all about it'
' By the man-engine.'
' For mercy's sake, don't ! if s very
dangerous if you're not accustomed
to it He told me so.'
That tone of entreaty persuaded
me more than ever that I would
take the most dangerous route. It
was very brutal, I know, but at such
a time I would sooner have died
than shown the white feather.
They escorted me towards the
infernal machine like a criminal on
his road to execution.
' Set it a going. Bill,' said the
sub-captain; and then in a few
terse sentences he explained the
principle of the engine.
Two parallel horizontal bars pro-
vided with iron steps at intervaui of
about ten yards, were ibr ever vrork-
ing up and down— up and down.
The method of getting down the
shaft was by passing from bar to
bar and fh>m step to step, the very
instant the word 'Change' was
given. It was essentially requisite
to change the moment the word of
command was given, and to make
no bungle or shuffle about the ope-
ration. The engine waited for no
man. There was no possibility of
calling a halt, and no saving hand
to catch one if a miss was made.
All one's safety rested with one'a
self. One false step or fiilse clutch
at the next rung, and it would have
been all over with me. Now this
fun was all very well vnth the day>
light shining down the shaft, when
one could see the iron steps and see
the handles, but in the pitch dark-
ness it was simply awful. The
rushlight in one's hat gave little or
no light ; and it was ten chances to
one if the water dashing off the
sides of the shaft did not extinguish
it
They practised me at first for a
turn or two about a hundred yard&
up and down the shaft, and even in
the daylight I bungled a little.
' You must change quicker, sir,'
said my guide ; ' if the iron steps
knock against you it will be all up-
with you,'
I; was very pale, I know, after
the first short practice. I felt that
In Oie Heart of the Earth.
65
I was doing a madcap act; I know
that the men ought to have stopped
me ; the little voice, now quite trem-
bling, begged me not to go ; bnt I
bit my lips and to wed I would not
Bfaow the white feather.
' Do you think you are all right,
air? said my guide. 'Will you
go ? You must decide now finally.'
' AU right,' I said.
And then the bell rung, and down
we went I saw the little face— it
was the very last thing I saw— and
upon my honour I really and truly
felt that I should never see liiat
little fyuoe again except by a mi«
rac]&
But there was no time then to
think of anything but my own
That terribly monotonous word
'Change' came ringing out from
the dark depths of the shaft, uttered
by the sub- captain on the next
ledge below me. And I knew
that my life depended upon every
change.
Houn, days, years, yes, and cen-
turies, seemed to pass between
every ehanga It was like a hide-
ous nightmare. The awful sus-
pense between every word of com-
mand; the feeling that something
terrible might happen next time;
the loneliness of my situation, the
darkness of the shaft, the rush of
the water, the glimmer of the msh-
lights going down ; the sad hollow
echo of the captain's voice giving
the word of command, and exhort-
ing me to be careful, now kindly,
nowfearfally ; ail these things com-
bined made up as hideous a day-
dream as it is possible to conceive.
For full five and twenty minutes
I was in this awful suspense, and in
that time went througn about five
hundred changes.
At last, half blinded with beads of
cold perspiration, and nearly dead
with firight, I heard the welcome
bell ring again, and I was safe on
the first ledge of the mine.
The man-engine went no farther,
and the rest of the journey had to
be accomplished by ladders. I never
told the men what I suffered, but in
a rough kindly way I was congratu-
lated on my feat
' I never thought you would have
come, sir,' said one. ' It frightens
most after the first turn.'
' Can't you signal up that we are
all safe,' said I, thinking of the little
&ce.
* Tes, sir, to be sure.'
And they did.
The signal came back again,
'Thank God I' and all the miners
took off their hats at the last signal.
They are pious follows, these Cornish
miners.
I was quite two hours away from
my friends, groping about, now on
my hands and knees, now down
ladders from ledge to ledge, now
in a stooping position, now erect
in the dark mysterious corridors I
foond in the heart of the earth. It
was hot — stifling hot, hotter than the
very hottest room in a Turkish bath.
But the stalwart, half-clad men
working away at the ore were so
interesting, and the metal sparkled
so on the ground, and the scene
was so strange and fascinating, that
I could not tear myself away.
On and on I went, still for ever
walking on. I was very thirsty,
and would have given anything for
a draught of beer. But no stimu-
lants of any kind are found in the
heart of the earth. I was allowed
howerer to put my mouth to the
bung-hole of a water-barrel, and
very refreshing was the draught.
' You can walk on like this for
hours, sir,' said the captain, see-
ing I was tired, and still determined
not to give in.
' Is it pretty much the same?'
' I think you have seen all now,'
said he.
So we went back.
' Which way will you go?' said
my guide.
I was very tired.
' In the bucket,' I said, without
any hesitation.
With my pockets laden with
copper ore, and in the rough em-
brace of a stalwart miner— for it
was close quarters for two in the
bucket— we were swung up to the
daylight.
Dash went the bucket against the
sides of the shaft, through which
the water oozed and trickled and
splashed. Lighter and lighter it
became, until, at last, I saw above
56
DolgeUey and its AUradioM,
me the clear^ blue, cloudless s^;
and, half-dazzled with the glaring
light, and blinking like an old owl,
I arrived safe and sound on terra
firm a.
They greeted me with another
loud peal of laughter, louder and
merrier than the last My appear-
ance was certainly not prepossessing.
I was covered with rod mud from
head to foot, hot, dishevelled, wild,
and weary. And then * I smelt so
pah !' as Hamlet says. However, a
refreshing cold bath, a hair-brush,
rough towels, and a change of
clothes soon made me presentable ;
and after an excellent luncheon in
the board-room of the owners of the
Wheal Isabel, we were all very soon
trotting away towards Falmouth.
• • • • «
One word more. A brooch made
from the copper ore I brought up
from the mine rests on the neck of
the owner of the little face which is
looking at me as I write from a
distant comer of the room. Some-
times when I am out of sorts — which
is not very often now— I wake up
suddenly from a disturbed dream
in my old arm-chair, and fancy
somehow that the little face is
gone, that there is a strange sing-
ing in my ears, and from a dark
unearthly vault a voice keeps moan*
ing, ' Change.*
DOLGELLEY AND ITS ATTEACTIONS.
DOLGELLET was built in the
good old times, ages before the
independent souls of burgesses were
vexed by the restrictions of local
boards, and when every Welshman's
house was not only his castle, but
a castle he could erect, ver^ cheaply,
just where he liked to pitch it I
use the word ' pitch' advisedly, for
the architecture of Dolgelley has
been described, very quaintly, by an
old gentieman, after dinner, with the
aid of a decanter and a handftil of
nutshells, thus: 'You see this de-
canter, that is the church.' Then
taldng the shells and pouring them
over the decanter, he continued,
'and these are the houses 1' And
if you were to try for a week you
could not describe the place better.
It can scarcely be said that there is
a street in the whole town, and yet
Dolgelley is the capital of Merioneth-
shire, and (now) possesses two rail-
way stations. The main thorough-
fare in the direction of one station is
just 12 ft. 6 in. wide, and has no
straight length of more than a dozen
yards; and the inhabitants are jubi-
lant because they see their way— in
the erection of a market-hall— to-
wards widening a right-angle corner
to something approaching eighteen
feet! The town, instead of streets,
comprises a series of little squares,
intersected by narrow lanes, and the
houses are wholly built of large.
heavy grey stones, with material
enough in them to supply mansions
for a town twice the size, as man-
sions are now run up. Fancy all
this in a place where, during the
summer months, coaches and cars
are rattling about all the day long,
and far into the night too, and you
will fisincy a place the reality of
which you will find nowhere but at
Dolgelley.
I trust I have made the place
look quaint enough, if somewhat
dull and heavy in its proportions.
But it is not to study architecture
or to plan street improvements that
people crowd to Dolgelley. The
town lies in the very centre of at-
tractions the like of which cannot
be approached unless we cross the
Channel, and then it is an even
question whether they can be sur-
passed. When I speak of the crowds
that throng Dolgelley, I refer chiefly
to the traffic of last summer, for
until that time there was no railway
within miles of it : now there are
two, the London and North Western
(vid Cambrian) and the Great West-
em. Both routes run through charm-
ing scenery, but the former goes
further into Wales, consequently its
tourist tickets are more extensive. By
one or the other passengers can book
for a month from all the great towns
of England at exceedingly cheap
rates, and it was noticeable, last
rnr: hfart uf the n.^nTn
DolgcUey and iU AUraelions.
67
summer, that tbo landlords — ihdae
too often dreadful ogres — were wise
in their generation, and, as a rule,
did not disgust the tourist with out-
rageous charges.
But I am traTelling away from
the attractions that surround Dol-
gelley. First and foremost of course
arises—
' That form sabUme, thatdrawetb upward ever
To aiiy points its far receding dopes-
Cathedral mouutaln, 'mid the thousand shrines
That lift their gorgeous steeples all around,
Bepletu with heavenward praise, where every
mom
The wild winds ring for worship — ,' •
Cader Idris— to which these lines
refer—is indeed a glorious moun-
tain. Thousands of foreigners (i, e,
non-Welshmen, natives rarely go
up) hare ascended its slopes, whilst
those who know how to pronounce
its name can be counted by dozens.
' Have you been up Eayder I-dris?*
you will hear a cockney cousin ask
over his pipe in the billiard-room
of the Ship Hotel, naturally leading
to the subject he feels so virtuous
about, the achievement of the moun-
tain. A little talk ensues, and per-
haps the courteous landlord (of course
a Jones) politely corrects a conple of
mistakes Dy remarking, ' We Welsh-
men always say Cad-er Id-ris,' and
the host is right Then, as a natural
sequence, the talk follows as to the
meaning of the name, and some-
times a hot contest results. Some
say that * Idris' was a warrior, some
that he was a philosopher, others
that he was both : all that he used
the mountain as an observatory,
either to keep his eye on military
tactics below, or on tiie stars above.
Then as to ' Gader' there is a dif-
ference of opinion, those inclined to
the military view holding that it
means 'fortress,' those favouring
the philosopher notion believing it
to mean 'onair.' The latter opi-
nion is the most generally received,
bat I am not aware that there is
even a Welshman who believes that
the Eisteddfod has produced a pro-
fessor who can fill such a chair of
philosophy! And this is saying
much, for the Welshmen of the £is-
♦ From * Three All Saints' Summers,* by
the Rev. W. Wakham How, of Whitting-
ton, Oswestry.
teddfodau* are by no means defi-
cient in self-esteem! Gader Idris
has formed a bone of contention in
other ways. And in using the word
bone I steer clear of the geologists,
who have had their quarrel over its
rugged steeps. A writer in a semi-
scientific periodica], three years ago,
was very angry with the compilers
of those wonderfal productions face-
tiously termed 'Guide-books,' and
says: *It is to be regretted that
Guide-book writers, in describing
Cader Idris, should copy the errors
of one another, so as to leave the
tourist in ignorance of what he may
really expect in making the ascent
of the mountain.' This promised
well, but the writer left the moun-
tain pret^ much as he found it, all
he did being to defend the theory of
' Watery Geology' against the belief
of 'Volcanic Graters.' He was
smarUy commented upon in the
' Merionethshire Standard' by a local
geologist, who preferred fire to water,
and I think had the best of it. The
height of the mountain, too, is some-
times disputed. Some authorities
Elace it second only to Snowdon,
ut a larger number hold that it
really is less in altitude than Arran-
Fowddy (near Bala), Bhinog Fawr
(between Harlech and Barmouth),
and Diphwys, another mountain of
the same district But what it lacks
in height Gader assuredly makes up
in grandeur, and by all it is esteemed
as the most beautiful of the Gam-
brian heights. I don't propose de-
scribing the ascent of the mountain.
With the aid of a stout walking-
stick and good lungs it may be done
on two legs in three hours ; feebler
folk can readily, and without the
slightest feeling of danger, accom-
plish tiie same end on four legs in
about the same time. For this pur-
pose ponies, that won't go astray if
you try and make them, can be had at
the hotels at the charge of six shillings
each, conductor included, the latter
generally an active boy who does
not object to make himself generally
useful if there is the i)rospect of a
small gratuity. Gbarming views are
* 'Eisteddfodau' is the plaral of Eis-
teddfod. The final 's' atter the latter
woixl is a common error made by English
writers.
58
DotgeHey and Ut Attractions.
to be obtained at TariooB stages in
the ascent, which form ample ex*
cases for reeting. One or two lakes
are passed, notably Llyn-y-Gader,
the ' Lake of the Chair/ where so
fine an echo can be prodnced that
the wonder is the SwiES style of
cows -horn mnsic has not been imi-
tated. At the top yon cannot see
80 fiir as from Snowdon, bat what is
to be seen is more yaried ; not that
the view is by any means limited.
Sonth we haye Piimlimon and the
Brecknock Beacons, east the Arran
and Bala Lake — that wonderfal
sheet of water that is one day to
snpply the town of Liyerpool with
the element it so greatly needs— and
far away beyond the Arran range
the Berwyn is plainly yisible, and,
on moderately clear days, that centre
of the proad Salopian's toast, ' the
Wrekin,' adds a charm to the land-
scape. To the north Snowdon shats
up the yiew, and westerly there is
the beaatifiil bay of Cardigan and
the broad Atlantic. It is even said
that the Cader yiew embraces more
distant attractions; bat the toarist
telescopes provided by Goide-book
writers are notorioosly strong in
tiieir magnifying power, so I prefer
confining myself to the capacity of
yisions like Sam Weller's, that are
limited in their powers. And after
all what does it matter? The eye
can bat be filled with beauty, and
here the poet's eye, in a fine filenzy
rolling, may glance from heaven to
earth, from earth to heaven, to the
utmost content of his heart
There are several paths by which
you can descend frx>m the Chair of
Idris. The hotel-keepers of coarse
say that anlees yoa take a goide
yoa will speedily find very short
ones indeed. And there is a mea-
Bare of trath in what they say, for
the mists so saddenly arise in the
monntain districts that it is always
safer to have a trustworthy man at
year elbow who knows his way with
his eyes shut. Still, I have gone ap
from Dolgelley to the top, and down
to Talyllyn— that charming resort of
lazy anglers — ^without a goide and
without difficulty, that is, without
difficulty in tracing the route, for
the Talyllyn sAoent is veiy rough
and steep. Another favoorite ascent
is from Barmouth (a rising watering-
place— not yet spoiled— visited by
Mr. Mark Lemon last summer, and
photographed in 'Punch'). But my
object is not so much to go into de-
tails, which can be gathered by the
yisitors in the several localities, as
to induce tourists who rush to Swit-
zerland first to see what 'Greater
Britain' can produce; and having
said so much about Cader Idris I
will complete Mr. How's exquisite
description of it, and proceed to note
a few more of the attractions of Dol-
gelley.
' Let me add
Mjr pony voice to all Uie mighty- chant
'I'haL dowD Uiy sculptur'd aialefl a iboasanct
BtFcams
Chant as ihey march white-vested. TempL&
vast,
.Grpat dome, instinct with awe and tbon^t
profound,
Whose slteut regions and unmeasui'd spsce
DiBtil a sense of power and ma^m^,—
Whose mighty walls of fretted rock, and slop^
That front all aspects of the hollow sky,—
Whose forms tbat in their changes infinite
Make thee complete In unity— whose vsstness
And grandeur, that do unimpaired embrace
The exquistts perfection of each part
W^rought with minutest skill—whose noon-
day glory
Scor'd with black shades of deep-cut masonry—
Whose vaults with lavish beau^ studded,
boss'd
With cluster of huge angleSk feather'd o'er
With foliage of all grsce— whose marble
floors
or airy lakes, that see the starry hosts
March nightly by,— whose proud head wreathed
round
With lightning storms, — whose sudden shout-
ing rush
or hurricane, and tumult of swift winds, —
'NVhose winter torrents, and whoso glased
Yea, and whose gem-Uke flower most delicate
Nurs'd in a cleft of rock amid the spray
Of waterfalls— all gloriously exalt
Thine awful Architect : I would bow low.
Great mountain, in thy vast and silent courts,.
Filling my soul with worship unto Him
Who built tliee for a temple to His praise/
One of the strong attractions of
Dolgelley to a large class of the
oommanity is the mineral wealth of
the district ; and many a Pater-
familias, while his wife and daugh-
ters are hunting for ferns and wild
flowers, is himself— with an eye to
something more practical — ^'pros-
pecting' for copper, lead, or gold.
The gold fever in the district half a
dozen years ago was something re*
DolgeUep and Us AUraetuma.
59
markable> and I am sarpriged no
popular account of it has been pnb<
fished. The natives tell me that
certain mines had been worked for
lead and copper for many years, the
ore obtained being carried away
into Flintshire, where it was smelted,
small quantities of silver being ex-
tracted. It was supposed that gold
existed in the qnaitz so plentifully
found in the rocks— indeed sundiy
specks had been visible to the naked
eye — but no one seemed to think
that the quantity would pay for the
labour of extraction. Events proved
otherwise, and now the general im-
pression is that some of the Me-
rionethshire copper formerly smelted
in Flintshire has been converted
into rather more valuable kettles
and saucepans than are usually to
be met with in ordinary domestic
life.
The gold fever commenced about
i860, and in this way. A Mr. Wil-
liams became the purchaser of the
Yigra and Ciogau mine, which is
situated in a narrow valley in the
mountains, five miles from Dolgelley
on the Barmouth road. This had
been worked for copper for a con-
siderable period, but Mr. Williams
tried for gold. Curious stories are
told of the hopes, fears, and disap-
pointments of the owner and his
manager, John Parry, when one
morning — ^it is said on the very day
they had agreed to abandon the
search, ruin staring tiiem in the face
— Parry made such a discovery as
turned the heads of the whole com-
munity. The excitement was par-
donable, for in a 'bunch' he turned
out what proved to be thirty-six
ihouaand pounds worth of gddl At
once the fever raged. Nothing was
talked of by day or dreamed of by
night but
^ *Oo1d I and gold ! and gold wlthoat end ! *
Gold to lay by, and gold to spend,
Qold to give, and gold to lend.
And reveraiona of gold in/uturo !'
To say that the day of discovery
was 'marked by a white stone' in
the history of Dolgelley would
merely be stating the literal fact,
for soon every man you met would
have a lump of quartz in his pocket
and a scheme in his head, the reali-
zation of which would make him
the hero of a new El Dorado. The
landlords who had possession of the
heights into the sides of which the
gold-seekers wished to burrow were
besieged for leases. Cabinet minis-
ters and leading statesmen came
down to Dolgelley to join in the
search for gold. One of the most
democratic of Radicals, and one of
the most popular men in England,
became the chairman of a company
under agreement with a Conserva-
tive of tiie Conservatives, and— so-
cially—the most popular man in
Wales. Yes; for once John Bright
and Sir Watkin Wynn were in the
same lobby, and the Castell-Cam-
Dochan, the mine in question, held
out when all the others, save one,
had collapsed. Capitalists sank
their manufactured gold in the hunt
for the raw material, and limited
liability companies, with almost un-
limited resources, put up the per^
fection of machinery, engaged the
most knowing hands, native and
foreign, and thought they were lay-
ing the foundation of colossal for-
tunes.
But, alas for the dreamers and the
workers! The finding of the nuggets
at Ciogau was a piece of good fortune
not to be repeated. True, that com-
pany did net a profit of 20,000^. a
year for two or three years after, but
the bulk of the new ventures were
failures, and now even the Vigra
and Ciogau barely pays its working
expenses. The others are all closed.
'Ah, sir,' said an intelligent police-
officer to me one night as I smoked
my pipe on his beat at Dolgelley,
' if uiey had looked in their Bibles
they would have found that gold
was not to be discovered like other
metals.' This was a Cave-of-Adnl-
1am allusion to me — I wonder
whether Mr. Bright had thought of
it— so I ' gave it up.' The sergeant
explained: 'Don't you know, sir, it
says in Job, "There is a vein for
the silver and a place for gold" ? so
we are not led to expect to follow
it upas we can some other mine-
rals.^ This is true, as the specu-
lators found it Many mines were
opened— the Imperial, the Sove-
reign, the Prince of Wales, the Saint
David, the Cambrian, the East Cam-
brian, <&c. &o. Speedily the hill-sides
60
DclgeUey and Us AUraclions,
resoundod with the olang of the iron
stamps crashing the quartz, and all
VTBS life, hope, and activity. Like
dogs, the mines had their day.
Their big names were of no avail,
and it was soon found that- the * Im-
perial* quartz yielded but a very
short measure of gold ; the patron
saint of Wales was not propitiated
by the venture dedicated to St. Da-
vid ; the ' Sovereign' absorbed more
of its namesake than it produced
stuff to make ; and the East Gam-
briau, having produced little under
the 'stamps' of iron, soon came
under the hammer of the auctioneer.
Yigra and Ologau is still worked,
and every now and then other ven-
tures are revived. Visitors to the
district will do well to explore some
of these, and they may, as I have
done, occasionally pick up a bit of
quartz containing visible specks of
the genuine metal : they will always
insure a charming walk.
And it is in charming walks and
rides that Dolgelley is so especially
attractive. You cannot go out from
the town, in any direction, without
being surprised into some new
beauty. Taking the road to Ma-
chynlleth for the distance of a mile,
a lane diverges to the left to Dol-
Berau, the residence of Mr. Charles
Edwards, ex-member for Windsor.
Opposite the gates leading to the
house a pathway called the 'Tor-
rent Walk,' on the Caerynwch estate,
winds up to a considerable height,
down the side of which falls a most
lomantic little river which rises in
the Gader range. Mr. Meredith
Richards (gtandson of the late Baron
Eichards) kindly allows the public
to enjoy this beautiful retreat, and
a more delightful way of spending a
isummer morning than in visiting it
we cannot imagine. The walk
mounts, sometimes by steps and
sometimes by slopes, always in the
43ound and generally in sight of the
mountain torrent, and both Eight
and sound of the water bound^g
over and between the unmense boul-
ders beneath are, on a hot day, won-
derfully refreshing. Seats are placed
at the most attractive points, and
ihe ferns and wild flowers are so
well protected by the public that
ihey are allowed to grow in the very
cracks of the steps. The foliage
around and above affords an agree-
able shade, and here and there are
peeps into the world without per-
fectly bewitching. After a mile or
so of this quiet enjoyment the Ma-
chynlleth road is again reached, and,
following it, the explorer soon
reaches the Gross Foxes tavern,
where he may just as well refresh
himself if he wishes to prolong his
walk, as I should most earnestly
advise him to do. Leaving the
Gross Foxes, and going due east,
there is a steep ascent of a mile,
when the summit of one of the
grandest of the minor passes of
Wales is attained. Blvch-Oer-
ddrws (Gold-door-pass), as this is
called, is almost unkuown to the
world of tourists. From the summit
the view towards Dolgelley must be
seen to be appreciated. Gader Idris
rises a magnificent centre to the
panorama, and the * glorious estuary
of the Mawddach'* up to Barmouth
completes one of the grandest bits
of Welsh scenery I know. Turning
your back to this enchanting view,
and walking on, after another mile
of tolerably level ground, you begin
to descend the pass, a place of
gloomy grandeur, where, it is said,
the friends of Owain Glyndwr as-
sembled after the death of their
chief ' for the purpose of making
compacts to enforce virtue and
order.' Some of the mountains here
assume fantastic shapes, notably one
on the right, which resembles a
crouching lion of huge proportions.
The pretty valley of Gerrist is reached
in another mile, and the pedestrian
enters on a cheerful turnpike road,
with a sparkling river on one side
and a fine amphitheatre of moun-
tains beyond. A mile or two of this
lands the visitor at Dinas Mawddy.
Now if you were to search Great
Britain over and have to say where
would be the most unlikely place to
see a railway station you would say
' At Dinas Mawddy.' And yet there
you find one. The place is perhaps
the smallest city in the world, in-
deed any one might be pardoned for
calling it a very insignificant village,
but city it is, as the word 'dinas'
* So described by the late Mr. Justice
Talfourd in hi& * Vacation Rambles.*
DolgeUey and its AUraetioHB,
61
implies. When you once get there
from the Cold-H^oor-pass yoa may
natnially wonder how you are to
find another door for egress, for the
hamlet is, to all appearanoe, quite
shut in by mountains. The very
noveliy of its position holds people
there for a few weeks in the summer,
especially if they are fond of Ihe
gentle art, for the Boyey, one of the
best fishing rivers in Wales, runs
through the valley. To Sir Edmund
Buckley, M.P. for Newcastle-under-
Lyme, Dinas owes its railway. That
gentleman is the great landowner of
the district, has built a mansion at
the head of the city, and has made
the line at his own cost, chiefly for
the development of the slate traffic.
The county abounds in minerals,
and many distinguished Englishmen
have their fingers in Merionethshire
mineral pies 1 I may say, in passing,
that the late Lord Palmerston was
the chairman of a company at Festi-
niog, and I have heard an old miner
tell with glee how he clothed the
genial lord with suitable raiment,
and stuck a candle into his hands,
to arm him for an exploration of the
levels. But this is a digression. Sir
Edmund Buckley's railway runs
through Mallwyd and Gemmes, a
couple of Dovey fishing stations, to
the Cambrian system, a distance of
seven miles. By means of this line
Dinas, where a few years ago not a
word of English was spoken, has
been introdaced to the outer world.
I remember one day standing on IJie
side of one of the hills that shut in
Dinas with a farmer of the neigh-
bourhood who had lived there all
his life, and his son who had just
returned from a year's residence in
London. Jones junior's 'compari*
sons were odorous,' and his nose
turned up at everything Welsh.
The London he had left seemed to
be almost like the London Dick
WhittiDgton expected to fiud. At
last Jones senior cut the lad short
by pointing to the grand old moun-
tains around, which the setting sun
had lit up with a halo of gold, and
asking him, ' John, did you see any-
thing like this in London ?' John
hadn't, and we all silently enjoyed
the wonderful transformation scene.
I hinted in the earlier part of my
paper that Englishmen made rather
a mess of Welsh names. It has often
occurred to me that the Guide-book
people would do a great service to
Hie travelling public if they would
give an index of names of Welsh
towns, villages, mountains, streams,
and passes, with the proper pronun-
ciation attached. The queries of
tourists are sometimes perplexing.
One day I was journeying by the
Cambrian railway from Newtown to
Machynlleth, when a gentleman in
the carriage asked me where he was
to change for Malrved. I said I
knew Wales pretty well, but I
thought there must be some mis-
take; at least there was no such
place as Malwed known to fame.
He replied, * Oh, yes, there must be,
for I am advised that there is a
public conveyance from one of the
stations to it' I called the guard,
and asked him. ' Malwed, Malwed,'
he muttered ; ' blest if the gent
mustn't mean MatUewed* And the
gent did—Mallwyd, the fishing sta-
tion on the Dovey, being the re-
quired haven. This difficulty of
pronunciation has been got over in
some places by the slaughter of the
Welsh entirely, and the adoption of
an English approximation to the
sound. Thus in one of the best
known of valleys the guards and
porters at the railway station call
out ' Llangol-len.' What would the
bard who wrote —
* While the maid of Ilangullen smiles sweetly
on me/
say if he could hear his lines thus
barbarized ?
But I have strayed from Dolgel-
ley, and as we are at Dinas we may
as well make a detour and go back
by way of Bala. You will get about
as good a notion of Welsh scenery in
this walk as in thrice the distance
on most of the beaten tracks. First
you have a pass, BwlohygroeSf de-
scribed by the Guide-boobs as ' ele-
vated and terrific 1' then a mountain,
Airan Benllyn— -which, however,
you do not ascend: then a water-
fall ; and lastly a lake with a river
running throiujh it ! Once at Bala
the Great Western Eailway Com-
pany will take you to Dolgelley in
an hour.
These railways rather bother old
62
DolgeUen tmd Ua AitracUonB.
stagers who used to ' do' Wales by
coach and walking-stick. Occasion-
ally yon see them with their repre-
sentatires of this generation, fight-
ing their battles o'er again, and
shaking their heads oyer the effemi-
nacy of first-class cushions. They
hardly know where they are, and
the Guide-books don't help them,
for the latter, instead of being en-
tirely rewritten, are patched; old
and new routes being so mixed as
to perplex the sons and utterly to
confound the fathers. ' Ah, my boy/
I heard an old gentleman say to his
grandson, one day when the train
pulled up at a station between Bala
and Dolgelley, ' I remember this
place (Drwsynant), but we walked
to it from Dolgelley, and earned the
oalrcake and erw-da we enjoyed at
the inn ! Very likely the inn is a
limited-liability hotel now, and oat-
cake a thing unheard-ofl' Then
followed the inevitable sigh over
the world's changes. I advised the
grandson, as the evening was fine,
to get out at Drwsynant, and walk
the seven miles to Dolgelley. I
hinted that he would find the old inn
unchanged, the oat-cake still served,
and the crw as good as ever. I also
told him that he would enjoy the
valley of the Wnion and the view of
Gader Idris as much as any one could
have done in the last generation;
but the misguided youth preferred
the cushions and remained. .
Drwsynant puts me in mind of a
funny story about a former Sir
Watkin Wynn, said to have been
tme in the old coaching days. A
tourist of an inquiring turn of mind
joined the coach at that place on its
way to Bala. Inside he found a
stout gentleman enjoying a nap.
When he woke, the tourist asked
whose was the farm they were pass-
ing. ' Mine,' was the reply, and the
gentleman again slept. Another
wakeful moment, and another ques-
tion : ' Who may that mountain be-
long to?' 'To me;' followed by
another doze. Again came a wake-
ful moment, and the question, ' Do
you know who is the owner of that
valley ?' with the answer, ' I am not
sure, but I think most of it's mine.'
No more questions were asked, but
when ^the coach reached Bala the
tourist bolted into the house, saying
— ' I have been riding with eitfaer a
prince, a madman, or the devil.'
' You are right,' replied a native.
' Ton have beoi riding with the
'' Prince tn Wales " and a devil-ish
good landlord !'
I have not much more to say
about Dolgelley, or rather I am not
going to say much more. If the
travelled visitor wishes to revive
the sensation of a Swiss Pa«, he
can do so on the pathway winding
up the side of Moel Cynw^ ; and at
the summit the view towards Bar^
mouth will remind him of the Rhine.
If he wishes less arduous means of
attaining pleasure, he can take a oar
to Tynygroes, a capital little hos-
telry, half a dozen miles from Dol-
gelley, where he can eat his dinner
at the head of a delightful little
valley, with Moel Orthrwm, ' The
Hill of Sacrifice,' before him and the
Mawddach bounding along bdow.
And there are less attractive modes
of eigc^ent than this, let me re-
mark, in propitious weather. Alter
dinner he may take a lazy walk to
Bhaiadr Du, ' The Black Oataraet,'
a rather considerable water&ll, with
everything that Nature can add in
the snrroondings to make it beau^
tifuL A fisurtber effort— still within
the compass of the lazy— will bring
the tourist to PistHl-y-Gain, a really
, grand fall. If you want thoionghly
' to enjoy the luxury of doing nothing,
an hour or two under the shade of
the trees near these fidls on a hot
summer's day is, to my mind, the
very perfection of it Under the
designation of ' Nothing,' of course
I include a pipe, if you are of the
male kind, or a crochet-needle, if
feminine.
The Guide-books tell us that Dol-
gelley possesses ' some good public
buildings,' and the county gaol is
mentioned as a sample. Beautifally
situated in one of tne most charm-
ing spots in the neighbourhood, it
is imquestionably the ugliest build-
ing in Merionethshire, which is say-
ing much. 'You Dolgelley folks
can worship your gaol, if you like,'
said a jokmg visitor one day to a
townsman, ' for you will not break
the commandment.' 'How so?'
asked the other. 'Because it is
DdgeUey and Us AitracHons,
63
not in the likeness of anything tbat
is in heaven aboTe« or in the earth
beneath, or in the waters nnder the
earth/ was tiie reply, with the ad*
dition, ' indeed it is a precious deal
more unsightly than anything that
is!' The church is described as
'substantial, with a fine tower.'
Substantial it certainly is, but of
the fineness of the tower the less
said the better: some of the memo-
rial windows in the nave are very
fine indeed. There is only one
building in Dolgelley that visitors
will care to look at, and that is
Owain Glyndwr^s old Parliament
House. There it is with its carved
timbers almost as sound as they
were five hundred years ago.
No visitor should leave Dolgelley
without taking a peep at the primi-
tive method the local manufacturers
have of making fluinels and tweeds.
The mills are situated in some of
the most romantic spots in the
valley, and form favourite subjects
for artists. Inside they are as novel
as outside they are picturesque.
The labour is performed entirely by
hand, and wonderfully durable is
the Deibric produced. The price at
which the tweeds are sold is some-
thing ridiculous. I bought stuff
for a complete suit of what was
termed the 'Wynnstay fishing-
cloth,' for sixteen shillings! and
the cloth has this merit to the
economical—when it begins to look
shabby you may turn your coat and
— as is often the case after this pro-
cess—your outward appearance will
be improved I One of the manufac-
turers (of course a Jones !) showed
me amongst his list of patrons the
names of Alfred Tennyson, Francis
Newman, Mark Lemon, and other
notabilities, and it seems more than
probable, now that steam is applied
to locomotion in the county, it will
soon follow in the manufacture of
flannels.
I have said that there is not much
in Dolgelley to attract. There is
one novelty attaching to the place
that I must not conclude wiUiout
mentioning. One day I asked my
landlord what was the population of
the place? 'Five thousand,' he
replied, ' including jackdaws 1' This
is quite true : there are bo many
one would think every man. woman,
and child in the town must have its
'familiar.' The inhabitants are
obliged to have their chimneys
8W€^ periodically, whether they
have h^ fires in their grates or
not. to clear out the nests. The
inhabitants profess to detect two
distinct breeds in the daws —
' Churchmen and Dissenters ' —
which they say never mix, and
which never agree. I should qua-
lify this by saying that they do agree
in one thing, which is to make a
precious row in the early summer's
morning just when tired tourists
want to sleep. It's of no use to
swear. The Cardinal of Bheims
would be powerless to make the
Dolgelley daws moult a feather I
And now to leave this beautiftd
valley and these glorious hills. It
is hard to do so, but holidays must
be short-lived luxuries, if they are
to be luxuries at all. My object has
been to induce the public to explore
one of the most lovely spots in
Wales; not to gallop through the
Principality as if all enjoyment de-
pended on seeing everything men-
tioned in the . Guide-books. This
spot I now leave, and—
'Eonnd the purpled shonlder, like a pageant,
One by one the mountain summits die :
Even 08 earth's narrow outlines near us
Hide the inflnite glories from the eye.
* Homeward onoe again. Ah I Tanish'd moun-
tainsf-
Like old fticnds, your ftces many a day
O'er the bowery woods shall rise before me^
And the level oom-lands far away.
* By the dreamy rippling in the sunlight,
By the windy surglngA of the shore,
Up the thymy sheep-tracks through the
heather,
I must wander, glad of heart, no more.
' Yet I bear with me a new possession ;
For the memoiy of all beauteous things
Over dusty tracks of &tratten'd duties.
Many a waft of balmy fragrance brings.
' Was it thriftless waste of golden moments
That I watched the seaward-burning west,
Tbat I sought the sweet rare mountain-flowerfc.
That I climbed the rugged mountain-crest?
*Iiet me rather deem tbat I have gathered.
On the lustrous shore and gleamy hill, ^
Strength to bravely do the daily duty.
Strength to calmly bear the chandng UL'
And with these exquisite lines, by
the Bev. W. W. flow, I take my
leave of the reader. A. B.
64
FLO AND FIDO.
(Illustrated.)
FLO is devoted to Bketching,
She's paintiiig the slow-settmg sun,
Bnt Fido, he Ma would be stretching
His legs in a walk or a mn.
Flo finds it ample enjoyment
The beanties of Nature to trace.
While Fido— oh, pleasant employment-
Must gaze in his mistress's face.
With a whine now and then.
As if asking her when
She will lay by her sketch-book and come for a race.
Of all save her picture forgetful
Flo finds the time rapidly go.
While Fido — rude dog— has grown fretfal.
And weary of looking at Flo.
He is longing like mad for a scamper.
And wishiog the pictmre were done;
The waiting cools down, like a damper.
His natural spirits and fun.
So he makes this remark.
In the form of a bark,
' Pray leave off that drawing and let's have a run '
Oh, Fido! would I were your proxy,
I'd sit there and worship all day 1
I'd dream of no heterodoxy
Like wishing to scamper away.
You— -fortunate dog— are permitted
To contemplate Flora the fair ;
Ton may stare, but you'll never be twitted
With hints that it's vulgar to stare.
You ill-mannered cur.
While you're sitting near lie",
What taste to be wishing that you were elsewhere!
Why Fred, tom, Augustas, and Harry
(The ground that she treads on they love)
Would be proud, sir, to fetch or to carry.
As you ao, her kerchief or glove —
Would feel themselves amply rewarded
By one of the smiles she gives you.
They'd jump at the least chance afforded
To lie at her feet as you do 1
Oh, Fido, fie, fie!
You're more happy than I,
If you only your exquisite happiness knew.
Come, leave off that fretting and whining—
What numbers of fellows I know
Would, their liberty gladly resigning.
Like you, become servants of Flo I
For to gaze on sweet Flora, unchidden.
As long as her sketching endures.
Is a bliss which to man is forbidden—
Which your blest position insnres.
Ay, with Flo for my wife
I could lead ' a dog^s life'—
Provided, of course, ' a dog's life ' is like yours !
^
65
M. OB N.
* SlmQU dmlllbu earantiir/
By G. J. WHYTE-MELVILLE,
Afihob ov 'Diobt Grand/ 'Gbbihb,' *Ths Gladiatobs/ xra
CHAPTER XIX.
AN INOUBUB.
IT is not to be supposed that any
gentleman can see a lady in the
streets of London and remain him-
self nnseen. In the human, aa in
meaner races, the female organ of
perception is quicker, keener, and
more accurate than the male. There-
fore it is that a man bowing in Pall
Mall or Piccadilly to some divinity
in an open carriage, and failing to
receive any return for his salute,
sinks at once into a false position
of awkwardness and discomfiture.
II a man^ son coup, and his face
assumes mcontinently the expres-
sion of one who has missed a wood-
<cock in the open, and has no second
barrel with which to redeem his
ahot. As Dick saw Lady Bear-
warden in Oxford Street, we may
lye sure that Lady Bearwarden also
saw Dick; nor was her ladyship
best pleased with the activi^ he
displayed in avoiding her carriage
and escaping from her society. If
Mr. Stanmore had been the most
successful Lovelace who ever de-
voted himself to the least remu-
nerative of pursuits, instead of a
loyal, kindnearted, unassuming
gentleman, he could hardly have
•chosen a line of conduct so calcu-
lated to keep alive some spark of
interest in Maud's breast, as that
which he unconsciously adopted.
It is one thing to dismiss a lover,
because suited with a superior ar-
ticle (as some ladies send away
five-foot-ten of footman when six-
ibot comes to look after the place),
and another to lose a vassal for
good, like an unreclaimed hawk,
heedless of the lure, clear of the
jesses, and checking, perhaps, at
every kind of prev in wilful, wanton
flight, down-wind, towards the sea.
There is but one chance for a
man worsted in these duels a Vou-
trance, which are fought out with
VOL. XVI.— NO. XOI.
such merciless animosity. It is to
bind up his wounds as best he may,
and take himself off to die or get
well in secret. Presently the con-
queror finds that a battle only has
been won, and not a territory gained.
After the flush of combat comes a
reaction, the triumph seems some-
what tame, ungraced by presence of
the captive. Curiosity wakes up,
pity puts in its pleading word, a
certain jealous instinct of appropriar
tion is aroused. Where is he?
What has become of him? I won-
der if he ever thinks of me now f
Poor fellow I I shouldn't wish to be
forgotten altogether, as if we had
never met, and though I didn't
want him to like me, 1 never
meant that he was to care for any-
body else I Such are the thoughts
that chase each otiier through the
female heart when deprived of so-
vereignty in the remotest particular ;
and it was very much in this way
that Lady Bearwarden, sitting alone
in her boudoir, speculated on the
present doings and sentiments of the
man who had loved her so well and
had given her up so unwillingly,
yet with never a word of reproach,
never a look nor action that could
add to her remorse, or make her
task more painful.
Alas! she was not happy; even
now, when she had gained all she
most wished and schemed for in
the world. She felt she was not
happy, and she felt, too, that for
Dick to know of her unhappiness
would be the bitterest drop in the
bitter cup he had been compelled to
drain.
As she looked round her beau-
tiful boudoir with its blue satin
hangings, its numerous mirrors, its
redundancy of coronete, surmount-
ing her own cipher, twisted and
twined into a far more graceful de-
F
66
Jf . w If,
ooration than the grirn^ heraldio
Brain which formed her husband's
cognizance, she said to herself that
something was yet required to con-
stitute a woman's happiness beyond
the utmost efforts of the upholder's
art — that even carriages, horses,
tall footmen, quantities of flowers,
unlimited credit, and whole packs
of cards left on tiie hall table e^ery
day, were mere accessories and su-
perfluities, not the real pith and
substance of that for which she
pined.
Lady Bearwarden, more than
most women, had, since her mar-
riage, found the worldly ball at her
foot. She needed but to kick it
where she would. As Miss Bruce,
with nothing to depend on but her
own good looks and conquering
manners, she had wrested a large
share of admiration from an un-
willing public; now as a peeress,
and a rich one, the same public of
both sexes courted, toadied, and
flattered her, till she grew tired of
hearing herself praised. The men,
at least those of high position and
great prospects, had no scruple in
offering a married woman that
homage which might have entailed
their own domestic subjugation, if
laid at a spinster's feet; and the
women, all except the yery smartest
ladies (who liked her for her utter
fearlessness and sang-froid, as well
as for her own sake^, thought it a
fine thing to be on mtimate terms
with 'Maud Bearwarden,' as they
loved to call her, and being much
afraid of her, made up to her with
the sweet facility and sincerity of
their sex.
Yet in defiance of ciphers, coro-
nets, visiting cards, blue hangings,
the homage of lords, and the vas-
salage of ladies, there was something
amiss. She caught herself con-
tinually looking back to the old
days at Ecdesfield Manor, to the
soft lawns and shady avenues, the
fond father, who thought his
darling the perfection of humanity,
and whose face lit up so joyfully
whenever she came into the room ;
the sweet delicate mother from
whom she could never remember
an unkind look nor an angiy word ;
the hills, the river, the cottagers,
the tenants, the flower garden, the
ponies, and ;the old re&ever that
died licking her hand. She felt
kindly towftfds Mrs. Stanmore, and
wondered whether she had behaved
quite as well to that lady as she
ought, recalling many a little act of
triumphant malice and overt re-
sistance which afforded keen gratifi-
cation to the rebel at the time. By
an easy transition, she glided on to
Dick Stanmore's honest and re-
spectful admiration, his courtesy,
his kindness, his unfiuling forbear-
ance and good -humour. Bear-
warden was not always good-hu-
moured—she had found that out
abready. But as for Dick, she re-
membered how no mishap nor an-
noyance of his own ever irritated
him in the slightest degree; how
his first consideration always seemed
to be ker comfort'and Jier happiness ;
how even in his deep sorrow, de-
ceived, humiliated, cut to the heart,
he had never so much as spoken
one bitter word. How nobly had
he trusted her about those dia-
monds ! How well he had behaved
to her throughout, and how fondly
would he have loved and cherished
her had she confided her future to
his care! He must be strangely
altered now, to avoid her like tiiis.
She was sure he recognised her, for
she saw his face fall, saw him wince
—that at least was a comfort— but
never to shake hands, never even to
stop and speak! Well, she had
treated him cruelly, and perhaps
he was right
But this was not the actual griev-
ance, after all. She felt she would
do precisely the same over again.
It was less repentance that pained
her, than retribution. Maud, for
the first time in her life, was be-
ginning to feel really in love, and
with her own husbfmd. Such an
infatuation, rare as it is admirable,
ought to have been satisfactory and
prosperous enough. When ladies
do so far condescend, it is usually a
gratifying domestic arrangement for
themselves and their lords ; but in
the present instance the wife's in-
creasing affection afforded neither
happiness to herself nor comfort to
her husband. There was a ' Some-
thing' always between them, a
Jf. or Nm
67
shadow, not of saspidon nor mis-
trnst, forBearwarden was frank and
loyal by nature, but of coldness.
8he had a secret from him, and she
was a bad dissembler ; his finer in-
stincts told him that he did not
possess her fall confidence, and he
was too proud to ask it. So they
lived together, a few short weeks
after marriage, on outward terms
of courtesy and cordiality, but with
this little rift of dissatisfaction gra-
dually yet surely widening into a
fissure that should rend each of
these proud unbending hearts in
twain.
' What would I gire to be like
other wires,' thought Maud, look-
ing at a half-length of her husband
in uniform, which occupied the
place of honour in her boudoir.
'What is it? Why is it? I would
loTC him 60, if he would let me.
How I wish I could be good—reaUy
good, like mamma was. I suppoeuB
it's impossible now. I wonder if
it*s too late to tiy.' And with the
laudable intention of beginning
amendment at once. Lady Bear-
warden rang sharply to tell her
Bervants she was 'not at home to
anybody till Lord BearwEurden came
in, except'— and here she turned
away from her own footman, that
he might not see the colour rising
in her fiftoe — * except a man should
call with some silks and brocades,
in which case he was to be shown
up stairs at once.'
The door had scarcely closed ere
the paperHsutter in Maud's fingers
broke diort off at the handle. Her
grasp tightened on it insensibly,
while she ground and gnashed her
small white teeth, to thmk that she,
with her proud nature, in her high
position, should not be free to Bd-
mit or deny what visitorB she
pleased. So dandies of various
patterns, afoot, in tea-carts, and on
hacks more or less deserving in
shape and action, discharged them-
selves of their visiting-cards at Lady
Bearwarden's door, and passed on
in peace to fulfil the same rite else-
where.
Two only betrayed an unseemly
emotion when informed ' her lady-
ship was not at home:' the one, a
cheerful youth, bound for a water-
party ftt Skindle's, and fearfal of
missing his train, thanked Provi-
dence audibly for what he called
' an unexpected let off;' the other,
an older, graver, and far handsomer
man, suffered an expression of pal-
pable discomfiture to overspread
his comely &ce, and, regardless of
observation, walked away from the
door with the heavy step that de-
notes a heavy heart Not that he
had fidlen in love with Lady Bear-
warden— iJEur fix>m it. But there
fvastk Somebody— that Somebody an
adverse fate had decreed he must
meet neither to-day nor to-morrow,
and the interval seemed to both of
them wearisome, and even painful.
But Maud was 'Somebody's' dear
friend. Maud either had seen her
or would see her that veiy after-
noon. Maud would let him talk
about her, praise her, perhaps would
even give her a message— ^nay, it
was just possible she might arrive
to pay a morning visit while he
was tiiere. No wonder he looked
so sad to forego this series of chances ;
and all the while, if he had only
known it. Fate, having veered round
at luncheon-time, would have per-
mitted him to call at Somebody's
house, to find her at home, en-
chanted to see him, and to sit with
her as long as he liked in the well-
known room, with its flowers and
sun-shades and globes of goldfish,
and the picture over the chimney-
piece, and its dear original by his
side. But it is a game at crosish
purposes all through this dangerous
pastime; and perhaps its very
contretempB are wnat make it so in-
teresting to the players, so amusing
to the lookers-on.
Lady Bearwarden grew fidgetty
after a while. It is needless to say
that ' the man with some silks and
brocades' to be admitted by her
servants was none other than ' Gen-
tleman Jim,' who, finding the dis-
guise of a 'travelling merchant'
that in which he excited least sus-
picion in his interviews with her
ladyship, had resolved to risk de-
tection yet once more, and had
given her notice of his intention.
We all remember Sinbad's Old
Man of the Sea, and the grip of that
merciless rider tightening doaer
F a
68
M.wN.
and cloBer the longer he was carried
by his disgiiBted yiotdm. There is
more truth in the Cable than most
of 08 woold like to allow. If yon
onoe permit yourself to set up an
' Old Man of the Sea/ fiurewell to
free agency, happiness, even tole-
rable comfort, from that time forth 1
Sometimes your burden takes the
shape of a renewed bill, sometimes
of a fiKtal secret, sometimes of an
unwise attachment, sometimes only
of a bad habit; but whatever it be,
the further you carry it the heavier
it seems to grow; and in this case
custom does not in the least degree
reconcile you to the infliotioD. Up
with your heels, and kick it off at
any price! Even should you rick
your back in the process, it is
better to be crippled for life than
eternally opi>res8ed by a ruthless
rider and an intolerable weight
Gentlemsa Jim was becoming
Lady Bearwarden's Old Man of the
Sea. More than onoe of late be had
forced himself on her presence
when it was exceedingly mconve-
nient, and even dangerous to meet
him. The promised interview of
to-day had been extorted from her
most imwillingly, and by threats,
implied if not expressed. She be-
gan to feel that she was no longer
her own mistress— that she had lost
her independence, and was virtually
at the command of an inferior. To
a proud nature like hers such a
situation seemed simply intole-
rable.
Lrad Bearwarden seldom came
in much before it was time to dress
for dinner; but young men's habits
are not usually very regular, the
monotonous custom of doing every-
thing by clockwork being a tedious
concomitant of old age. Maud could
not calculate on his absence at any
particular hour of the day unless
ne were on duty, and the bare
notion that she should wUh thus to
calculate fretted and chafed her be-
yond measure. It was a relief to hear
the door^bell once more and prepare
to confiront the worst A Ix>ndon
servant never betrays astonishment,
nor indeed any emotion whatever
beyond a shade of dignified and
forbearing contempt The first foot-
man showed Lady Bearwarden's
snspidous-looking visitor into her
boudour with sublime indifference,
returning thereafter leisurely and
loftily to his tea. Maud felt her
courage departing, and her defeat,
like that of brave troops seized by
panic, seemed all the more immi-
nent for habitual steadiness and
valour. She took refuge in an
attempt to bully. 'Why are you
herer said Maud, standing bolt
upright, while Gentleman Jim, with
an awkward bow, began as usual
to unroll his goods. ' I have told
you often enough this persecution
must finish. I am determined not
to endure it any longer. The next
time you call I stuill order my
servanto to drive you from the door.
Oh! will yoM—wUl you not coma
to terms?*
His fBuce had been growing
darker and darker while she spoke,
and she watehed its expression as
the Mediterranean fisherman watohes
a white squall gliding with fatal
swiftness over the waters, to bring
ruin and shipwreck and despair.
It sometimes happens that the
fisherman loses his head precisely
at the wrong moment, so that
foiled, helpless, and taken aback,
he comes to fiEital and irremediable
grief. Thus Lady Bearwarden
too found the nerve on which she
prided herself failing when she
most wanted it, and knew that the
prestige and influence which formed
her only safeguards were slipping
from her grasp.
She had cowed this rufiSan at their
first meeting by an assumption of
oakn courage and superiority in a
crisis when most women, thus con-
fronted at dead of night by a house-
breaker, would have shrunk trem-
bling and helpless before him.
She had retained her superiority
during their sulisequent association
by an utter indifference as to re-
sults, so long as they onl^ affected
character and fortune, which to his
lower nature seemed simply incom-
prehensible; but now that her heart
was touched she could no longer
remain thus reckless, thus defiant
With womanly feelings came wo-
manly misgivings and fear of con-
sequences. The charm was lost,
the spell broken> and the familiar
M. or K
69
spiril had grown to an exacting
master from an obedient slaye.
'That's not the way as them
speaks who's had the pith and mar-
row out of a chap's werry bones/
growled Jim. * There wasn't no
talkin' of fignre-footmen and dri^in'
of respectable tradesmen from folks'
doors when a man was wanted, like
this here. A man, I says, wot wasn't
afeard to swing, if so be as he could
act honourable and fulfil his bar-
gam.'
' 111 pay anything. Hush! pray.
Don't speak so load. What must
my servants think? Consider the
frightful liaks I run. Why should
you wish to make me utterly mise-
rable— to drive me out of my
senses? 1*11 pay anything— any-
thing to be free &om this intole-
rable persecution.'
'Pay— pay anythinkP repeated
Jim, slightly mollified by her dis-
tress, but still in a tone of deep
disgust. ' Pay. Ah ! that's always
the word with the likes of you.
You think your blessed money can
buy us poor chaps up, body and
heart and soul. Blast your money 1
says I. There, that's not over
civil, my lady, but it's plain speak-
ing.'
' What would you have me do?*
she asked, in a low, plaintive voice.
She had sunk into an arm-chair,
and was wringing her hands. How
lovely she looked, now at her sore
distress. It impa^rted the one femi-
nine charm generally wanting in
her beauty.
Gentleman Jim, standing over
against her, could not but feel the
old mysterious influence pervading
him once more. ' If you was to say
to me, Jim, says you, I believe
as you're a true chap I — I believe
as you'd serve of me, body and
bones. Well, not for money.
Money be d— — d! But for good-
will, well say. I believe as you
thinks there's nobody on this 'arth
as is to be compared of me, says
you, and see, now, you shall
come here once a week, once a
fortnit, once a month, even; and
I'll never say no more about clrivin'
of you away; but you shall see me,
and I'll speak of yoa kind and h'af-
fftble; and whatever I wants dono
I'll tell you, do it; and it wUl be
done; see if it won't! Why — why
I'd be proud, my lady — there — and
happy too. Ay, there wouldn't
walk a happier man, nor a prouder,
maybe, in the streets of London I*
It was a long speech for Jim. At
its conclusion he drew his sleeve
across his face and bent down to re-
arrange the contents of his bundle.
Tears were falling from her eyes
at IsAi Noiselessly enough, and
without that redness of nose, those
contortions of face, which render
them so unbecommg to most women.
* Is there no way but this?' she
murmured. 'No way but this?
It's impossible. If s absurd. It's
infamous! Do you know who I
am? Do you know what you ask?
How dare you dictate terms to me f
How dare you presume to say I
shall do this, I shall not do tJiaif
Leave my house this minute! I
will not listen to another syllable I'
She was blazing out again, and
the fire of pride had dried her tears
ere she concluded. Anger brought
bac^ her natural courage, but it was
too late.
Gentleman Jim's &ce, distorted
with fury, looked hideous. Under
his waistcoat lurked a long, thin
knif& Maud never knew how
near, for one ghastly moment, that
knife was to beiDg buried in her
round white throat
He was not quite madman enough,
however, to indulge his passions so
far, with the certainty of iiomediate
destruction. 'Have a carel' he
hissed through his clenched teeth.
'If you and me is to be enemies,
look out! You know me— least-
ways you ought to. And you know
I stick at nothing.'
She was still dreadfully fright-
ened. Once more she went back to
the old plea, and offered him, fifty
pounds, a hundred pounds. Any-
thing!
He was tying the knots of his
bundle. Completing the last, he
looked up, and the glare in his eyes
haunted her through many a sleep-
less night
' You've done it now !' was all he
muttered. 'When next you see
me youll wish you hadn't'
It speaks well for Jim's self-corn-
70
JCorJV.
nuuid that, as he went dowB, he
could say, 'Your servant, my lord/
with perfect composure, to a gentle-
man whom he met on the stairs.
CHAPTER XX.
'the LimjE ou>in>.'
Lord Bearwaiden, like other no-
blemen and gentlemen keeping
house in London, was not invanably
fortunate in the selection of his ser*
Yants. The division of labour, that
admirable system by which such
great xesults are attaked, had been
brought to perfection in his as in
many other establishmenta A man
who cleaned knives, it appeared,
could not possibly do anything else,
and for several days the domestic
arrangements below stairs had been
disturbed by a knotty question as
to whose business it was to answer
'my lord's bell.' Now my lord was
what his servants called rather ' a
arbitrary gentleman,' seeming, in-
deed, to entertain tfa^ preposterous
notion that these were paid their
wages in consideiation of doing as
they were bid. It was not there-
fore surprising that figure-footmen,
high of stature and fiftultless in gene-
ral appearance, should have suc-
ceeded each other with startling
rapidity, throwing up their appoint-
ments and doffing his lordship's
livery, without regard to their own
welfare or their employer's conve-
nience, but in accordance with some
Quixotic notions of respect for their
office and loyalty to their order.
Thus it came about that a subor-
dinate in rank, holding the appoint-
ment of second footman, had been
so lately enlisted as not yet to have
made himself acquainted with the
personal appearance of his master ;
and it speaks well for the amiable
disposition of this recruit that al-
though his liveries were not made,
he should, during the temporary
absence of a fellow-servant, who
was curling his whiskers below,
have consented to answer the door.
Lord Bearwarden had rung like
any other arrival ; bat it must be
allowed that his composure was
somewhat ruffled when refused ad-
mittance by his own servant to his
own house.
'Her ladyship's not at home, I
tell ye,' said the man, apparently
resenting the freedom with which
this stranger proceeded into the
ball, while he plaoed his own massive
person in the way ; 'and if you want
to see my lord, you just eeok't—that
I know r
'Why?' asked his master, begm-
ning to suspect how the land lay,
and oonsidenbly amused.
'Because his lordship's particu-
larly engaged. He's having his
'air cut just now, and the dentist's
waiting to see him after he's done,'
returned this imaginative retainer,
arguing indeed firom his pertinacity
that the visitor must be one of the
swell mob, therefore to be kept out
at any cost
' And who are you f said his lord-
ship, now laughing outright
' Who am I?' repeated the man.
Tmlus lordship's footman. Now,
then, who are youf Thafs more
like it I'
'I'm Lord Bearwaiden himself,'
replied his master.
'Lord Bearwarden! Oh! I dare
say,' was the unexpected rejoinder.
' Well, that is a good one. Come,
young man, none of these games
here : there's a policeman round the
comer.'
At this juncture the fortunate
arrival of the gentleman with lately-
curled whiskers, in search of lus
'Bell's Life,' left on the hall-table,
produced an ^daircissement much to
the unbeliever's confusion, and the
master of tiie house was permitted
to ascend his own staircase without
further obstruction.
Meeting ' Gentieman Jim' coming
down with a bundle, it did not strike
him as the least extraordinary that
his wife should have denied herself
to other visitors. Slight as was his
experience of women and their ways,
he had yet learned to respect those
various rites that constitute the
mystery of shopping, appreciating
the composure and undisturbed at-
tention indispensable to a satisfac-
tory performance of that ceremony.
But it did trouble him to observe
on Lady Bearwarden's face traces
of recent emotion, even, he thought,
to tears. She turned quickly aside
when he came into the room, busy-
M.arN.
71
ing herself with the blinds and
mnslin window-curtains; bat he had
a quick eye, and his perceptions
were sharpened besides by an afifeo-
tion he was too proud to admit»
while racked with cruel misgivings
that it might not be returned.
' Qentleman-like man that, I met
JQSt now on the stairs T he began
good-humouredly enough, though
in a certain cold, conventional tone,
that Maud knew too well, and hated
accordingly. * Dancing partner,
swell mob, smuggler, respectable
tradesman, what is he ? Ought to
sell cheap, I should say. Looks as
if he stole the things ready made.
Hope you've done good business
with him, my lady ? May I see the
plunder?' He never called her
Maud; it was always 'my lady/ as if
they had been married for twenty
jeais. How she longed for an en-
dearing word, slipping out, as it
were, by accident —for a covert smile,
an occasional caress. Perhaps had
these been lavished more freely she
might have rated them at a lower
yalue.
Lady Bearwarden was not one of
those women who can tell a lie with-
out the slightest hesitation, calmly
isatisfied that ' the end justides the
means ;' neither did it form a part
of her creed that a lie by implica-
tion is less dishonourable than a lie
direct. On the contrary, her nature
was exceedingly frank, even defiant,
and from priafe, perhaps, rathbr than
principle, she soomea no baseness
so heartily as duplicity. Therefore
she hesitated now and changed co-
lour, looking guilty and confused,
but taking refuge, as usual, in self-
assertion.
'I had business with the man,'
fihe answered, haughtily, 'or you
would not have found him here.
I might have got rid of him sooner,
laerhaps, if J had known you were
TO be home so early. I'm sure I
hate shopping, I hate tradespeople,
I hate '
She was going to say 'I hate
everything,' but stopped herself in
time. (Counting her married life as
jet only by weeks, it would have
sounded too ungracious, too un-
grateful I
'Why should you do anything
you hate?' said her husband, Tery
kindly, and to all appearance dis-
missing every suspicion from his
mind, though deep in his heart
rankled the cmel conviction that
between them this strange, myste-
rious barrier increased day by day.
' I want you to have as little of the
rough and as much of the smooth ^
in life as is possible. All the ups
and none of the downs, my lady.
If this fellow bores you, tell them
not to let him in again. That
second footman will keep him out
like a dragon. 111 be bound.' Then
he proceeded laughingly to relate
his own adventure with his new
servant in the hall.
He seemed cordial, kind, good-
humoured enough, but his tone was
that of man to man, brother officer
to comrade, not of a lover to his
mistress, a husband to his lately-
married wife.
She felt this keenly, though at
the same time she could appreciate
his tact, forbearance, and generositj
in asking no more questions about
her visitor. To have shown suspi*
don of Maud would have been at
once to drive her to eztremities,
while implicit confidence put heron
honour and rendered her both un«
able and unwilling to deceive.
Never since their first acquaintance
had she found occasion to test this
quality of trust in her husband, and
now it seemed that he possessed it
largely, like a number of other
manly characteristics. That he was
brave, loyal, and generous she had
discovered already; handsome and
of high position she knew long ago,
or she would never have resolved
on his capture ; and what was there
wanting to complete her perfect
happiness? Only one thing, she
answered herself; but for it she
would so willingly have bartered all
the rest — that he should love her
as Dick Stanmore did. Poor Dick
Stanmorel how badly she had
treated him, and perhaps this was
to be her punishment
'Bearwarden,' she said, crossing
the room to lean on the arm of his
chair, * we've got to dine at your
aunt's to-night. I suppose they
will be very late. I wish there were
no such things as dinners, don't yon?*
72
If, or jr.
'Not when Fve missed loncbeon,
as I did to-day/ answered his lord-
ship, whose appetite was like that
of any other healthy man under
forty.
'I hoped yon wouldn't,* Bhe ob-
served, in rather a low voice; 'it
was very dull without you. We
, see each other so seldom, somehow,
I diould like to go to the play to-
morrow—you and I, Darby and
Joan— I don't care which house, nor
what the play is.'
'To-morrow,' he answered, with
a bright smile. ' All right, my lady,
ni send for a box. I forgot, though,
I can't go to-morrow, I'm on Guard.'
Her &ce fell, but she turned
away that he might not detect her
disappointment, and began to feed
her bullfinch in the window.
* You're always on Guard, I think,'
said she, after a pause. * I wonder
you like it: surely it must be a
dreadful tie. Tou lost your grouse-
shooting this year and the Derby,
didn't you? all to sit in plate
armour and jack-boots at tliat
gloomiest and stuffiest of Horse
Guards. Bearwarden, I—I wish
you'd give up the regiment, I do
indeed.'
When Maud's countenance wore
a pleading expression, as now, it
was more than beautiful, it was
lovely. Looking in her face it
seemed to him that it was as the
&ce of an angel.
'Do you honestly wish it?' he re-
plied, gently. ' I would do a great
deal to please you, my lady ; but —
no— I couldn't do that.'
' He can't really care for me ; I
knew it all along ' thought poor
Maud, but she only looked up at him
rather wistfully and held her peace.
He was gazing miles away, through
the window, through the opposite
houses, their offices, their washing-
ground, and the mews at the back.
She had never seen him look so
grave; she had never seen that soft,
sad look on ius face before. She
wondered now that she could ever
have regarded that face as a mere
encumbrance and accessory to be
taken with a coronet and twenty
thousand a year.
* Would you like to know why I
cannot make this sacriSce to please
you?' he asked, in a low, serious
voice. ' I think yon ought to know,
my hidy, and I will tell you. I'm
fond of soldiering, of course. I've
been brought up to the trade— that's
nothiog. So I am of hunting, shoot-
ing, rackets, cricketing, London
porter, and dry champagne ; butrd
give them up, each and all, at a mo-
ment's notice, if it made you any
happier for ten minutes. I am a
little ambitious, I grant, and tb&
only fame I would care much for is
a soldier's. Still, even if my chance
of military distinction were ten times
as good I shouldn't grudge losing it
for your sake. No: what makes
me stick to the regiment is what
makes a fellow take a life-buoy on
board ship — the instinct of self-pre-
servation. When everything elso
goes down he s got that to cling to,
and can have a fight for his life.
Once, my lady, long before I had
ever seen you, it was my bad luck
to be very unhappy. I didn^t howl
about it at the time, Fm not going
to howl about it now. Simply, all
at once, in a day, an hour, every*
thing in the world turned from a
joy to a misery and a pain. If my
mother hadn t taught me better, I
should have taken the quickest
remedy of all. If I hadn't had the
regiment to fall back upon I must
have gone mad. The kindness of
my brother officers I never can for-
get; and to go down the ranks
scanning the bold, honest fiaces of
the men, feeling tliat we had cast
our lot in together, and when the
time came would all play the same
stake, win or lose, reminded me
that there were others to live for be-
sides myself, and that I had not
lost everythiDg, while yet a share
remained invested in our joint ven-
ture. When I lay awake in my
barrack-room at night I could hear
the stamp and snort of the old blacky
troopers, and it did me good. I
don't know the reason, but it did
me good. Tou will think I was very
unhappy — so I was,'
' But why ?' asked Maud, shrewdly
guessing, and at the same time
dreading the answer.
' Because I was a fool, my lady,'
replied her husband—' a fool of the
very highest calibre. You have, no
M.orN.
IB
doubt, discovered that in this world
folly is panished far more severely
than viilany. Deceive others, and
you prosper well enongh; allow
yourself to be deceived, and you're
pitched into as if you were the
greatest rogue unhung. It's not a
subject for you and me to talk
about, my lady. I only mentioned
it to show you why I am so unwil-
ling to leave the army. Why, I
clare not do it, even to please you.'
'But'— she hesitated, and her
voice came very soft and low—' you,
^you are not afraid — I mean
you don't think it likely, do you,
that you will ever be so unhappy
again ? It was about— about some-
body that you cared for, I suppose/
She got it out with difficulty, and
already hated that unknown Some-
body with an unreasoning hatred,
such as women think justifiable aod
even meritorious in like cases.
He laughed a harsh, forced laugh.
' What a fool you must think me,'
said he; 'I ought never to have
told you. Tee, it was about a
woman, of cours& You did not
Hftnoy I could be so soft, did you?
Don*t let us talk about it. Ill toll
you in three words, and then will
never mention the subject again.
I trusted and believed in her. She
deceived me, and that sort of thing
puts a fellow all wrong, you know,
unless he's very good-tempered, and
I suppose I'm not. If s never likely
to happen again, but still, blows of
all sorts fall upon people when they
least expect them, and that's why I
can't give up the old corps, but
shall stick by it to the last'
'Are you sure you haven't for-
given her?' asked Maud, inwardly
trembling for an answer.
' Forgiven her !* repeated his lord-
ship ; * well, I've forgiven her like
a Christian, as they say— perhaps
even more folly than that. I don't
wish her any evil. I wouldn't do
her a bad turn, but as for ever
thinking of her or caring for her
afterwards, that was impossible.
No. While I confided in her freely
and fully, while I gave up for her
sake everything I prized and cared
for in the world, while I was even
on the verge of sending in my
papers because it seemed to be her
wish I should leave the regiment,
she had her own secret hidden up
from me all the time. That showed
what she was. No: I don't think I
could ever forgive that—Gicepi as a
Christian, you know, my lady I'
He ended in a light sarcastic tone,
for like most men who have lived
much in the world, he had acquired
a habit of discussing the gravest
and most painful subjecte with con-
ventional coolness, originating per-
haps in our national dislike of any-
thing sentimental or dramatic in
situation. He could have written
probably eloquently and seriously
enough, but to 'speak like a book '
would have lowered him, in his own
esteem, as being unmanly no less
than ungentlemanlike.
Maud's heart ached very pain-
fally. A secret then, kept from
him by the woman he trusted,
was the one thin|^ he could not
pardon. Must this indeed be her
punishment? Day by day to live
with this honourable generous na-
ture, learning to love it so dearly,
and yet so hopelessly, because of
the great gulf fixed by her own
desperate venture, risked, after all,
that she might win him! For a
moment, under the * influence of
that great tide of love which
swelled up in her breast, she f^lt
as if she must put her whole life's
happiness on one desperate throw,
and abide the result Make a clean
breast, implore his forgiveness, and
tell him all.
She had been wandering about
while he spoke, straightening a
table-cover here, snipping a dead
leaf ofif a geranium there, and other-
wise fidgetting to conceal her emo-
tion. Now she walked across the
room to her husband's side, and in
another minute perhaps the whole
truth would have heen out, and
these two might have driven off
to dinner in their brongham, the
happiest couple in London ; but the
door was thrown wide open, and
the student of ' Bell's Life,' on whose
whiskers the time employed in curl-
ing them had obviously not been
thrown away, announced to her
ladyship, with much pomp, that her
carriage was at the door.
' Good gracious!' exclaimed Maud,
74
ULarN.
' and your atuit is always so pnnc-
toal. Toa must diess in ten mi-
nutes, Bearwarden. I'm certain I
can. Bun down this moment, and
don't stop to answer a single letter
if if s a case of life and death/
And Lady Beafwazden, casting
all other thoughts to the winds in
the present emergency, hurried up
stairs after the pretty little feet of
her French maid, whose anxiety
that her lady should not be late,
and perhaps ,a certain curiosity to
know the cause of delay, had
tempted her down at least as far as
the first landing, while my lord
walked to his dressing-room on the
ground-floor, with the comfortable
oonyiotion that he might spend a
good half-hour at his toilette, and
would then be ready a considerable
time before his wife.
The reflections that chased each
other through the pretty head of
the latter while subjected to Jus-
tine's skilfol manipulations, I will
not take upon me to detail. I
may state, howeyer, that the dress
she chose to wear was trimmed
with Bear warden's fayourite colour;
that she carried a bunch of his fa-
yourite flowers on her breast and
another in her hair.
A brougham drawn by a pair of
long, low, high-stepping horses, at
the rate of twelye miles an hour, is
an untoward yehicle for serious con-
yersation when taking its occupants
out to dinner, although well adapted
for tender confidence or mutual re-
crimination on its return from a
party at night. Lady Bearwarden
could not eyen make sure tliat her
husband obseryed she had con-
sulted his taste in dress. Truth
to tell, Lord Bearwarden was only
conscious that his wife looked ex-
ceedingly handsome, and that he
wished they were going to dine at
home. Marriage had made him
yery slow, and this inconyenient
wish lasted him all through dinner,
notwithstanding that it was his en-
yiable lot to sit by a fast young
lady of the |)eriod, who rallied him
with exceeding good taste on his
wife, his house, his furniture, man-
ners, dress, horses, and eyerything
that was his. Once, in extremity
of boredom, he caught sight of
Maud's delicate profile fiye couples
off, and iiBLncied ne could detect on
the pale pure fiice, something of
his own weariness and abstractioiL
After that the £ftst young lady
' went at him,' as she called it, in
yain. Later, in the drawing-room,
she told another damsel of her kind
that ' Bruin's marriage had utterly
spoilt him. Simply, ruination, my
dear! So unlike men in general.
What he could see in her I can't
make out! She looks like death,
and she's not very well dressed, in
my opinion. I wonder if she bullies
him. He used to be such fun. So
fast, 80 cheery, so delightfolly sa-
tirical, and as wicked as Sin !'
Maud went home in the brougham
by herself. After a tedious dinner,
lasting through a couple of hours,
enliyened by the conyersation of a
man he can't understand, and the
persecutions of a woman who bores
him, it is natural for the male hu-
man subject to .desire tobacco, and
a walk home in order to smoke.
Somehow, the male human subject
neyer does walk straight home with
its cigar. Bearwarden, like others
of his class, went off to Pratt's,
where, we will hope, he was amused,
though he did not look it. A cigar
on a close eyening leads to soda
water, with a slice of lemon, and, I
had almost forgotten to add, a small
modicum of gin. This entails
another cigar, and it is wonderful
how soon one o'clock in the morn-
ing comes round again. When
Lord Bearwarden turned out of
St James's Street it was too late
to think of anything but immediate
bed. Her ladyship's confessions, if
she had any to make, must be put
off till breakfast- time, and alas ! by
her breakfiftst-time, which was none
of the earliest, my lord was well
down in his sheep-skin, riding out
of the barrack-gate in command of
his guard.
■ Frontc capillat£ post est Occasio calav !'
Bald-pated Father Time had suc-
ceeded in slipping his forelock out
of Maud's hand the eyening before,
and, henceforth, behind his bare and
mocking skull, those delicate, dis-
appointed fingers must close on
empty air in yain!
M. or N.
75
CHAPTEB XXL
FUBENS QUID F(EMINA.
We left Tom Byfe, helpless, im-
oonscioos, more dead than alive,
sapported between a man and
woman np a back street in West-
minster: we mnst retnm to him
after a considerable interval, pale,
langtiid, but convalescent, on a sofa
in his own room tmder his nncle's
tool He is only now beginning
to understand that he has been
dangerously ill; that according to
his doctor nothing but a 'splendid
constitution ' and unprecedented me-
dical skill have brought him back
from the threshold of that grim
portal known as death's door. This
he does not quite believe, but is
aware, nevertheless, that he is much
enfeebled, and that his system has
sustained what he himself <»lis 'a
deuced awkward shak&' Even now
he retains no very dear idea of what
happened to him. He remembers
vaguely, as in a dream, certain bare
wails of a dim and gloomy chamber,
tapestried with cobwebs, smelling
of damp and mould like a vault,
certain broken fumituie, shabby and
scarce, on a bare brick floor, witib a
grate in which no fire oould have
been kindled without falling into
the middle of the room. He recalls
that racking headache, that scorch-
ing thirst, and those pains in all the
bones of a wan, wasted figure lying
under a patchwork quilt on a
squalid bed. A figure, independent
of, and dissevered from himself, yet
in some deg^e identified with his
thoughts, his sufferings, and his
memories. Somebody nursed the
figure, too — ^he is sureof that— bring-
ing it water, medicines, food, and
leeches for its aching temples;
smoothing its pillow and arranging
its bed-clothes, in those endless
nights, so much longer, yet scarce
more dismal than the days,— some-
body, whose voice he never heard,
whose face he never saw, yet in
whose. slow, cautious tread there
seemed a familiar sound. Once, in
delirium, he insisted it was Miss
Bruce, but even through that de-
lirium he knew he must be raving,
and it was impossibla Could that
be a part of his dream, too, in which
he dragged himself out of bed, to
dress in his own clothes, laid out on
the chair that had hitherto carried a
basin of gruel or a jug of cooling
drink? No, it must have been
reality surely, for even to-day | he
has so vivid a remembrance of the
fresh air, the blinding simshine, and
the homely life-like look of that
four-wheeled cab waiting in the
narrow street, which he entered
mechanically, which, aa mechani-
cally brought him home to his
unde's house, the man asking no
questions, nor stopping to receive
his fare. To be sore, he fiiinted
from utter weakness at the door.
Of that he is satisfied, for he re-
members nothing between the jolt-
ing of those slippery cushions and
another bed in which he fi)und
himself, with a grave doctor watch-
ing over him, and which he recog-
nised, doubtfully, as his own«
Gradually, with returning strength,
Tom began to suspeot tbe truth,
that he had- been hocussed and
robbed. His pockets, when he re-
sumed his clothes, were empty.
Their only contents, his cigar-case,
and Miss Bruce's letter, were gon&
The motive for so desperate an at-
tack he felt unable to fathom. His
intellect was still affected by bodily
weakness, and he inclined at first to
think he had been mistaken for
somebody else. The real truth
only dawned on him by degrees.
Its first ray originated with no less
brilliant a luminary than old Bar-
grave.
To do him justice, the uncle had
shown far more natural affection
than his household had hitherto
believed him capable of feeling.
During his nephew*s absence, he
had been like one distracted, and
the large reward offered for dis-
covery of the missing gentleman
sufficiently testified his anxiety and
alarm. When Tom did return,
more dead than alive, Bargrave
hurried off in person to procure
the best medical advioo, and post^
poning inquiry into his wrongs to
the more immediate necessity of
nursing the sufferer, spent six or
seven hours out of tbe twenty-four
at the sick man's bedside.
The first day Tom could sit up
76
M.wN.
his unole thought well to enliven
him witii a little news, social, gene-
ral, and professional. Having told
him that he had outbid Mortlake
for the last batch of poor Mr. Chalk-
stone's port, and stated, at some
length, his reasons for doubting the
stability of Government, he entered
gleefully upon congenial topics, and
proceeded to give the invalid a
general sketch of business affairs
during his retirement.
' I've worked the coach, Tom,'
said he, walking up and down the
room, waving his coat-tails, 'as
well as it could be worked, single-
handed. I don't think you'll find
a screw loose anywhere. Ah, Tom!
an old head, you know, is worth a
many pair of hands. When you're
well enough, in a week or so, my
lad, I shall like to show you how
I've kept everything going, though
I was so anxious, terribly anxious,
all the time. The only matter
iiiat's been left what you call in
statu quo is that business of Miss
Bruce% which I had nothing to do
with. It will last you a good while
yet, Tom, though it's of less im-
portance to her now, poor thing I
—don't you move, Tom— I'll hand
you the barley-water— because she's
Miss Bruce no longer.'
Tom gasi)ed, and hid his pale thin
face in the jug of barley-water. He
had some pluck about him, after all;
for weak and ill as he was he managed
to get out an indifferent question.
' Not Miss Bruce, isn't she? Ah !
I hadn*t heard. Who is she then,
uncle ? I suppose you mean she's—
she's marriea.' He was so husky,
no wonder he took another pull at
the barley-water.
' Yes, she's married,' answered his
unole in the indifferent tone with
which threescore years and odd can
discuss that fatality. ' Made a good
marriage, too— an excellent mar-
riage. What do you think of a
peerage, my boy? She's Viscountess
Bearwarden now. Twenty thou-
sand a year, if if s a penny. I am
sure of it, for I was concerned in
a lawsuit of the late lord's twenty
years ago. I don't suppose you're
acquainted with her husband, Tom.
Not in our circle, you know; but
a most respectable young man I
understand, and likely to be lord-
lieutenant of his county before
long. I'm sure I trust she'll be
happy. And now, Tom, as you
seem easy and comfortable, per-
haps you'd like to go to sleep for a
littla If you want anything you
can reach the bell, and I'll come
and see you again before I dress for
dinner.'
Easy and comfortable I When
the door shut behind. his uncle Tom
bowed his head upon the table and
gave way completely. He was un-
manned by illness, and the shock
had been too much for him. It
was succeeded, however, and that
pretty quickly, by feelings of bitter
wrath and resentment, which did
more to restore his strength than
all the tonics in the world. An
explanation, too, seemed now af-
forded to much that had so mys-
tified him of late. What if, ren-
dered desperate by his threats. Miss
Bruce had been in some indirect
manner the origin of his captivity
and illness— Miss Bruce, the woman
who of all others owed him the
largest debt of gratitude (like most
people, Tom argued from his own
side of the question) ; for whom he
had laboured so unremittingly, and
was willing to sacrifice so much.
Gould it be so? And if it was,
should he not be justified in going
to any extremity for revenge ? Bc-
venge— yes, that was all he had to
live for now ; and the very thought
seemed to put new vigour into his
system, infuse fresh blood in his
veins. So is it with all baser spirits ;
and perhaps in the indulgence of
this cowardly craving they obtain
a more speedy relief than nobler
natures from die first agony of suf-
fering; but their cure is not and
never can be permanent; and to
them must remain unknown that
strange wild strain of some un-
earthly music which thrills through
those sore hearts that can repay
good for evil, kindly interest for
cold indifference; that, true to them-
selves and their own honour, can
contmue to love a memory, though
it be but the memory of a dream.
Tom felt as if he could make an
exceedingly high bid, involving
probity, character, good faith, and
M, or JV,
77
the whole of his moral code, for an
auxiliary who shoald help him in
his vengeance. Assistance was at
hand even now, in an nnezpected
moment and an nnlooked-for shape.
' A person wishes to see yon, sir,
if yon^re well enongh/ said a little
housemaid who had Tolunteered to
provide for the wants of the in-
valid, and took very good care of
him indeed.
'What sort of a person?' asked
Tom, langoidly, feeling, neverthe-
less, that any distraction would he
a relief.
' Well, sir,' replied the maid, ' it
fleems a respectable person, I should
say. Like a sick-nurse, or what-
not'
There is no surmise so wild but
that a rejected lover will grasp at
and connect it with the origin of his
disappointment ' I'll see her,' said
Tom, stoutly, not yet despairing
but that it might be a messenger
from Maud.
He certainly was surprised when
Dorothea, whom he recognized at
once, even in her Sunday clothes,
entered the room, with a wandering
eye and a vacillating step.
' Youll never forgive me. Master
Tom,' was her startling salutation.
' It*s me as nursed you through it:
but you'll never forgive me— never!
And I don't deserve as 70a should.'
Dorothea was nervous, hysterical,
but she steadied herself bravely,
though her fingers worked and
trembled under her fiided shawL
Tom stared, and his visitor went
on,
' Ton'd a-died for sure if I hadn't
Don't ye cast it up to me. Master
Tom. I've been punished enongh.
Punished! If I was to bare my
arm now I .could show you wheals
thaf s more colours and brighter
than your neckankercher there.
I've been served worse nor that,
though, since. I ain't argoin' to
§ut up with it no longer. Master
'om, do you know as you've been put
upon, and by who?'
His senses were keenly on the
alert. * Tell me the truth, my good
girl,' said he, ' and Hi forgive you
all your share. More, I'll stick by
you through thick and thin.'
She whimpered a little, affected by
the kindness of his tone, but, tug-
ging harder at her shawl, proceed^
to farther confessions.
' You was hocussed, Master Tom;
and I can point out to you the man
as did it You'd 'a been murdered
amongst 'em if it hadn't been for
me. Who was it, d*ye think, as
nussed of you, and cared for you,
all through, and laid out your
clothes ready brushed and folded,
and went and got you a cab the
day as you come back here ? Master
Tom, I've been put upon too. Put
upon and deceived, as never yet
was bom woman used so bad ; and
it's my turn now! Look ye here.
Master Tom. It's that villain, Jim
—•Gentleman Jim, as we c^ls him —
what's been at the bottom of this
here. And yet there's worse than
Jim in it too. There's others that
set Jim on. Oh! to believe as a
fine handsome chap like him could
turn out to be so black-hearted,
and such a soft too. She'll never think
no more of him, for all his comely
&ce, than the dirt beneath her
feet'
'SheP repeated Tom, intensely
interested, and therefore preter-
naturally calm. 'What d'ye mean
by shet Don't fret, thafs a good
girl, and don't exdto yourself. Tell
your story your own way, you know,
but keep as quiet as you can.
You're safe enough here.'
' We'd been asked in church,* re-
plied Dorothea, somewhat inconse-
quently. 'Ah! more than once, we
had. And I'd ha' been as true to
him, and was, as ever a needle to a
Btitoh. Well, sir, when he slights
of me, and leaves of me, why if s
natural as I should run up and
down the streets a-lookin' for him
like wild. So one day, after I'd
done my work, and put things
straight, for I never was one of your
sluttish ones. Master Tom — and
your uncle, he's always been a kind
gentleman to me, and a h'affable,
like yourself. Master Tom— accord-
ing, I comes upon my Jim at the
Sunflower, and I follows him un-
beknown for miles and miles right
away to the West-end. So he never
loobs behind him, nor, he never
stops, o' course, till he comes to
Belgrave Square; and he turns
78
M.or N.
down a street as I oonldn't read its
name, but should know it again as
well as I know my own hand. And
then. Master Tom, if you'll believe
me^ I thought as I must have
veil?' said Tom, not prepared
to be satisfied with this climax,
though lus companion stopped, as if
she had got to the end of her dis-
closures.
' Well indeed I' resumed Dorothea
after a considerable interval, ' when
he come that far, I know'd as he
must be up to some of his games,
and I watched. They lets him into
a three-storied house, and I sees
him in the best parlour with a lady,
speaking up to ner, but not half so
bold as usual. He's not often
dashed, Jim isn't I will say that
for him.'
'What sort of a lady?' asked
Tom, qulTering with excitement
* You took a gwd look at her, I'll
be bound 1'
* Well, a real lady in a muslin
dress,' auswered Dorothea. ' A tall
young lady— not much to boast of
for looks, but with hair as black as
your hat and a face as white as
cream. Very 'aughly too an ar-
bitrary, and seemed to haye my
Jim like quite at her command.
So from where I stood I couldn't
help hearing everything that
passed. My Jim, he gives her the
very letter as laid in your pocket
that night, as you—as you was
taken so poorly, you know. And
from what she said and what he
said, and putting this and that
together, I'm sure as they got you
out of the way between them. Mas-
ter Tom, and gammoned me into
the job too, when I'd rather have
cut both my hands off, if I'd only
known the truth.'
Tom sat back on his soflE^ shutting
his oyes that he might concentrate
his powers of reflection. Yes, it was
all clear enough at last The na-
ture and origin of the outrage to
which he had been subjected were
obvious, nor could he entertain any
farther doubt of Maud's motives,
though marvelling exceedingly, as
well he might, at her courage, her
recklessness, and the social standing
of her accomplice. It seemed to
him as if he could forRive every one
concerned but her. This poor wo-
man who had furly thrown herself
on his mercy: the ruflSan whose
grip had been at his throat, but
who might hereafter prove as effi-
cient an ally as he had been a for-
midable enemy. Only let him have
Maud in his power, that was all he
asked, praying him to spare her,
kneeling at his feet, and then with-
out a shade of compunction to ruin,
and crush, and humble her to the
dust!
He saw his way presently, but
he must work warily, he told him-
self, and use all the tools that came
to his hand.
' If you can clear the matter up,
Dorothea,' said he, kindly, ' I will
not visit your share in it on your
head, as I have ahready told yoo.
Indeed I believe I owe you my lifa
But this man you mention, this
Qentleman Jim as you call lum,
can you find him? Do you know
where he is? Mypoorgirl! ItMnk
I understand. Surely you deserved
better treatment at his hands.'
The kind words produced this
time no softening effect, and Tom
knew enough of human nature to
feel sure that she was bent on re-
venge as earnestly as himself, while
he also knew that he must take
advantage of her present humour
at once, for it might change in an
hour.
' If I could lay my hand on him,'
answered Dorothea, fiercely, 'ifs
likely Id leave my markl I've
looked for him now, high and low,
every evening and many artomoons,
better nor a week. I ain't come on
him yet, the fieilse-hearted thief!
but I seen her only the day before
yesterday, seen her walk into a
house in Bemers Street as bold as
you please. I watehed and waited
better nor two hours, for, thinks I,
he won't be long follerin'; and I
seen her come out agin with a gen-
tleman, a comely young gentleman ;
I'd know him anywheres, but he
wam*t like my Jim.'
' Are you sure it was the same
lady?' asked Tom, eagerly, but
ashamed of putting so unnecessary
a question when he saw the ex-
pression of Dorothea's lace.
M.arN.
79
' Am I 9ure f said she, with a
short gasping langh. ' Do 70a sup-
pose as a woman can be mistook
as has been put upon like me?
Lawyers is clever men, askin' yonr
pfodon, Mr. Byfe, but there's not
mnch sense in such a question as
yoors: I seen the lady sir, and I
seen the honse; thafs enongh for
'And yon obeerred the gentle-
man narrowly?* oontinned Tom,
stifling down a little pang of jea-
lousy that was surely unreasonable
now.
' Well, I didn't take much notice
of the gentleman,' answered Doro-
thea, wearily, for the reaction was
coming on apace. ' It warn't my
Jim I know. Tou and me has
both been used bad. Master Tom,
and it's a shame, it is. But the
weather's imcommon close, and if s
a long walk here and I'm a'most
fit to drop, askin' your pardon, sir.
I wrote aown the number of the
'onse. Master Tom, to make sure—
fliere it is. If jrou please. 111 go
down stairs, and ask the servants
for a cup o' tea, and I wish you a
good artemoon, sir, and am glad to
see you lookin* a trifle better at
last'
80 Dorothea departed to enjoy
the luxury of strong tea and un-
limited gossip with Mr. Bargrave's
household, drawing largely on her
inTontion in explanation of her re-
cent interview, but affording them
no clue to the real object of her
visit
Tom Byfe was still puzzled. That
Maud (he could not endure to
think of her as Lady Bearwarden)—
that Maud should, so soon after her
marriage, be seen going about Lon-
don by herself under such question-
able circumstances was strange,
to say the least of it, even making
allowances for her recklessness and
wflful disposition, of which no one
eould be better aware than himself.
What could be her object? though
he loved her so fiercely in his own
way, he had no great opinion of her
discretion ; and now, in the bitter-
ness of his anger, was prepared to
put the very worst ccmstruction
upon everything she did. He re-
called, painfully enough, a previous
occasion on which he bad met her,
as he believed, walking with a
stranger in the Park, and did not
forget her displeasure while cutting
short his inquiries on the subject
After all, it occurred to him almost
immediately that the person with
whom she had been lately seen was
probably her own husband. He
would not himself have described
Lord Bearwarden exactly as a
' comely young gentleman,' but on
the subject of manly beauty Do-
rothea's taste was probably more
reliable than his own. If so, how-
ever, what could they be doing in
Bemers Street? Pshaw 1 How this
illness had weakened his intellect I
Having her picture painted, of
course! what else could bring a
doting couple, married only a few
weeks, to that nart of the town?
He cursed Dorothea bitterly for her
ridiculous surmises and specula-
tions—cursed the fond pair— cursed
his own wild unconquerable folly —
cursed the day he first set eyes on
that fatal beauty, so maddening to
his senses, so destructive to his
heart; and thus cursing staggered
across the room to take his strengUi-
em'ng draught, looked at his pile,
worn faee in the glass, and sat down
again to think.
The doctor had visited him at
noon, and stated witli proper cau-
tion that in a day or two, if amend-
ment still progressed satis&ctorily,
' carriage exercise,' as he called it,
might be taken with undoubted
benefit to the invalid. We all
know, none better than medical
men tiiemselves, that if your doctor
says you may get up to-morrow,
vou jump out of bed the moment
his back is turned. Tom Byfe,
worried, agitated, unable to rest
where he was, resolved that he would
take his carriage-exercise without
delay, and to &e housemaid's as-
tonishment, indeed much against
her protest, ordered a Hansom cab
to the door at once.
Though so weak he could not
dress without assistance, he no
sooner found himself on the move,
and out of doors, than he began to
feel stronger and better; he had no
object in driving b^bnd change of
scene, air, and exercise; but it will
80
The Piceadmy Papers.
not STurprifle those who have snf-
fered from the cruel thirst and
longing which accompanies such
mental maladies as bis, that he
should have directed the cabman to
proceed to Bemers Street.
It sometimes happens that when
we thus ' draw a bow at a yenture '
our random shaft hits the mark we
might have aimed at for an hour in
vain. Tom Kyfe esteemed it an
unlooked-for piece of good fortune
that turning out of Oxford Street he
should meet another Hansom going
at speed in an opposite direction,
and containing— yes» he could haye
sworn to them before any jury in
England — ^the faces, yery near each
other, of Lady Bearwarden and
Dick Stanmore.
It was enough. Dorothea's state-
ment seemed sufficiently corrobo-
rated, and after proceeding to the
number she indicated, as if to satisfy
himself that the house had not
walked bodily away, Mr. Ryfe re-
turned home yery much benefited in
his own opinion by the driye, though
the doctor, yisiting his patient next
day, was disappointed to find him
still low and feyerish, altogether
not so much better as he expected.
THE PICCADILLT PAPEES.
Bt a Pbbipatstic.
FOBSTEB'S LI7£ OF LANDOB.*
MR. FORSTER has in his time
rendered many and massiye ser-
yices to Enghsh literature and his-
tory, although we must, by way, even
here, enter our caveat against the one-
sided political character of his his-
tories. But, on the whole, he has per^
haps written no better book than this,
winch, for the subject and its treat-
ment, is the most interesting book
he has done. Walter Say age Land or
was a yery king among men, stand-
ing head and .shoulders aboye his
contemporaries. He was neyer a po-
pular writer. The ' Imaginary Gon-
yersations,' indeed, is a work with
which most general [readers are on
some terms of acquaintance. A few
stray lines of his poetry haye also
passed into the language, and are uni-
yersally known. But besides this
Landor yery rarely penetrated be-
yond the esoteric circle of gifted men
who entertained for him a most x>as-
sionate admiration, and who claimed
for him a higher place than was
granted to him by the mass of his
contemporaries, but perhaps not
higher than will be conceded by a
later age. But, at the same time, a
yery strong personal interest has
♦ « Walter Savage Landor.' A Bio-
graphy. By John Forster. Two vob.
Chapman and Hall.
always belonged to this most won-
derful old man. To him, if to any
man, belonged a most strongly-
marked indiyiduality. He was a
man who was always a law to him-
self, which means that be was law-
less in respect to othera; daringly
but irregularly great— great both in
his attainments and his originality;
headstrong, yiolent, imprudent, but
chiyalrous, tender, «nd generous to
the highest conoeiyable degree. It
was well known that he was obliged
to leaye England under a cloud,
under an extraordinary amount of
well-earned obloquy. Mr. Forster
has written his work with a iaimess
and impartiality to which biography
in general is almost a stranger. He
has told us, with kindness and can-
dour, of the errors of a great man
most &tal]y misguided as guided
only by his own wHl, but the general
result of his work will be to make
Landor infinitely better understood
by his countrymen, and greatly to
raise the general estimate of his
character.
It is essentially a literary bio-
graphy, and the reader will find
much keen and delicate criticism
of Lander's yaried writings. Its
yalue as a thoughtful literary work
will in this respect be considerably
The PiccadiUy Papers.
81
enhanced, tboagh its immediate po-
pularity may perhaps be depre-
ciated. Bat with occasional ossistr
ance of much service from such
illustrious coadjutors as Southey,
Julius Hare, Sir Frederick Pollock,
DickeDR. Browning, Algernon Swin-
burne, Mr. Forster has given us an in-
tellectual portraiture of Landor of
tlie highest degree of finish and per-
fection. We are told that it was at
Lander's house that Dickens first
devised the conception of Little
Nell in the ' Old Curiosity Shop/
«ftd Mr. Forster tells us that Dickens
depicted Landor in the portraiture
of Boythorn in ' Bleak Hoase.' But
the cheery loudness and playful ex-
ploeiveness of the Boythorn in fic-
tion point to some unpleasant facts
in the Landor of reality— the swift
wrath, the utter impracticableness,
the unwisdom, the unrest At Ox-
ford, although he was a thorough
floholar, that would have delighted
the hearts of dons, he was sent away
because he foolishly discharged a
gun against a don's window. He
displeased the best parents in the
world by such a wish as that the
French would hang George the
Third between two such thieves
as the Archbishops of Canterbury
and York. When his good mother
heard this speech, she immediately
rose i^m her seat and boxed her
goeoocious son's ears. It would be
ardly too much to say that
throughout life Landor was always
making such speeches and always
getting his ears boxed. At the
same time Landor was a man whose
knowledge of Greek was prodigious,
and who wrote Latin poetry, not
only with the Latinity, but with
the freshness and independence of
a Latin-born poet There was one
man who loved both his letters and,
his liberalism, and this was Dr.'
Parr, who, in spite of all his per-
secutions, passed an intensely en-
joyable life, and left a large for-
tune behind him. Landor was only
twenty-three when he brought out
his great poem, beloved by poets,
of ' Gebir.*^ He was at Paris when
Bonaparte was First Consul, and
had a good opportunity of ob-
serving him narrowly. It was won-
derful to hear Landor, in his old
VOL XVI.— NO. XCL
age, describing Napoleon Bonaparte
as a slim young man. Li later life,
when living in Bath, he had a visit
from the nephew, the present Em-
peror. He sent Landor his work on
' Artillery :* ' Temoigne d'estime de
la part du Prince Napoleon Louis
B., qui appr^cie le vraie m^rite
quelque oppos^ qu'il soit a ses sen-
timents et k son opinion.' Mr.
Forster has an interesting note,
saying that at the very time when
Landor thus met Louis Napoleon in
Bafh (1846), ' there was ia a board-
ing-school twelve miles off, on the
Clifton Downs, a pretty girl— grand-
niece to a maiden lady living in a
very small house at Dumfries— who
is now Empress of France.'
But we must return to the earlier
current of Lander's days, idthough
our space does not permit us to
make even an abstract of Mr.
Forster's volumes. For some time
Landor resided, an alien and exile
from home, in South Wales, and,
with a strongly-marked attachment
to localities, he always looked back
kindly on the neighbourhood of
Swansea. In due time he suc-
ceeded to the familj estates in Staf-
fordshire; and if he had been ca-
llable of the least prudence and
restraint he might have been a
wealthy squire to the end of the
chapter. But he soon began to be
extravagant and to be in love. He
fonnd a heroine whom he chose to
call Ion3, 'a name translated far too
easily into Jones;' and presently
another young .iroman orops up
called lontb^. ,The time was not
altogether ill spent, for he visited
Spain, he wrote a tragedy, and he
formed a lifelong friendship with
Southey, charming the poet's heart
by an offer to be at the cost of print-
ing epics as &st as he should write
them. He fixed his heart upon Llan-
thony Abbey and its estates, and to
complete this purchase he had to
make complicated arrangements,
parting with bis ancestral estate,
causing his mother to part with
hers, and having to obtain a private
Act of Parliament In after years,
Landor came to a very pretty place,
on which he gazed with enthusiasm
and longed to possess, and he was
told that it was part of his own
sa
The PieeadOff jhi9>en.
anoertiftl estate which he bad sold
in order to pnrdiase Llanthony.
It became necessary that he should
give Llanthony a mistress. Ac-
cordingly he married a youog lady
on the high gionnd that she had
very few pretensions and no fortone.
' The marriage took (rfaoe before the
end of May. It had all been ar*
ranged and settled after the manner
of the eternal friendship between
Cecilia and Matilda in the *' Anti-
jacobin." A sudden thought had
struck him and the thing was done.
He had married a pretty little girl,
of whom he seems literally to have
had no other tkoowledge than that
she had moreonrls on her head than
any other girl in Bath.'
Landor made a sad business both
of his wife and of his estate. There
were great difficulties in both, but
so much m««e might have been
made of both. There was too great
a difference in their ages, and
Landor had not the tact and skill
to compose this and still greater
diffiarenoes. * I must do the little
wife the justice to say/ wrote his
brother Robert, one of the justest
and wisest of men, 'that I saw
much of her, about three years after
her marriage, during a long journey
through France and Italy, and that
I left her with regret and pity.'
Similarly the Welsh among whom
he had settled himself were people
requiring judicious and adroit ma-
nagement, a system of which Landor
was utterly incapable. Landor was
as unstable aa water. He intended
to rebuild the abbey, but he didn't;
to build himself a fine residence, but
he didn't ; to plant a million of trees,
but he didn't ; to reform and civilize
the Llanthony world, but he didn't.
He found it the speediest escape out
of his troubles to run away both
from hiBwife and his estate; but he
discovered afterwards that it was
not so easy to make an escape from
such troubles. Mr. Forster speaks
of the evil and stubborn qualities
of the Welsh ; but Landor ought to
have made the best and not the
worst of things. Bullied by the
Welsh, he thought of establishing
himself as a French citizen in
some provincial town of France.
The plan was given up, and after
a dreary section entitled 'Private
DiFputes,' dealing with lawsuits
and annoyances, we find him mi-
grating to Italy, and after many
wanderings settling down in Flo-
rence. HehadtheMedicaoanpalazzo
then, but he contrived to make
himsalf ol»oxioua to the authorities,
and received otdem to quit Tus-
cany. He managed, however, a
charming villa ai Fiesol^, asflod-
ated with Michael Angek> and
Machiavelli, with Galileo and with
Milton. It wag bought very
cheaply. It is pleasant^ too, to
read, when we hear of Lander's un-
bounded generosity to others, that
his generous friaad Ablett advanced
him the money for the pon^uae, and
would have forced it upon him as
a present When the mon^ was
after various years repaid Ablett
refused to accept any money for its
usa
Years after Landor had left the
plaee Charles Dickens visited it
He drove out to Fiesol^ and aaked
the coachman to point out to bim
Lander's villa. But we will let
Mr. Dickens speak for himselt
' He was a dull dog, and pointed to
Boccaccio's. I didn't believe him.
He was so deuced ready that I
knew he lied. I went up to the
convent, which is on a height, and
was leaning over a dwarf wall
looking a* the noble view over a
vast range of hill and valley, when
a little peasant girl came up and
began to point out the localities.
"Eoco la Villa Landora!" ma one
of the first half-dozen sentences she
spoke. My heart swelled almost as
Lander's would have done when I
looked down upon it, nestling
among its olive-trees and vines,
and with its upper windows (there
are five above the door) open to the
setting sun. Over the centre of
these there is another stoiy, set
upon the housetop like a tower;
and all Italy, except its sea, is
melted down into the glowing land-
scape it commands. I plucked a
leaf of ivy from the convent garden
as I looked; and here it is. "For
Landor, with my love." ' So writes
Mr. Dickens to our biographer.
From thLB paradisaical retreat he
tears himself away by voluntary
The PiccadSay Pofen.
88
self- banishmeni He quarrelled
with his wife, and in the course of
this qnarrel acted with the most
absuid inoansistency. He says that
his wife used language to him
which was intolerable in the pre*
sence of his children. It seems
probable that Lander's complaint
against his wife was well founded ;
bat what can we think of him as
a father for deserting his children
for 00 many years and surrendering
them entirely to a parent whose
conduct he deliberately disap-
proved? Even while in Italy ho
had made flying visits to England,
refrahing himself with old family
associations and literary companion-
ship, and taking with him many
worthless pictures which had been
imposed upon his want of taste.
He now settled himself at Bath,
where he continued fbr one-and-
twenty years iJie greatest of its local
celebrities. It is unnecessary to
speak at length of the sad events
that drove him away tmrn Bath.
He mixed himself up in a miserable
quarrel about a governess, and
speedily found himself involved in
an action for libeL He was a man
who had always put passion before
reason, but would ultimately return
to a better mind. This better mind
seemed to desert him at the last, and
Landor was now a different being to
the Landor whohad once been. When
he published Ms 'Dry Sticks Fag-
goted,' strongly against Mr. Forsters
remonstrance, he wished to add on
the title-page, ' By the late W. 8.
Landor/ which in one sense might
have been truly said, and was with
difficulty dissuaded. The slander
business originated in Landor*^
desire to have the declivity of life
smoothed for him by the oompaaJbH'-
ship of charming yoong ladies. He
had formerly promulgated his opi-
nion on this subject in that favourite
'Imaginary Dialogue,' in which
Epicurus shows two handsome
Atheiyaa girls of sixteen and
eightMn his new garden, and ex«
pounds to them his philosophy.
But, as Mr. Forster somewhat
grimly remarks, ' Everything de-
pends in such a case upon the
choice of your Temissa and Leon-
tion.' With Landor irascibilily
grew into madness ; you were either
a fiend or an angel with him. In
his usual insensate way he violated
an undertaking not to reproduce
the libel, and was cast in oamages
for a thousand pounds with costs.
He was determined not to pay, but
to settle his property on his children
and to flee the country. In the last
part of his design he easily suc-
ceeded, but the opposite lawyers
were too sharp for him and got their
money. On his flight he stopp^l
in London at Mr. Forster's, and
Mr. Dickens, who went to see him
in his bedroom, 'came back into
the room laughing, and said that he
found him very jovial, and his
whole conversation was upon the
characters of Catullus, GKbullns,
and other Latin poets.' Then he
went back to Italy, living six years
longer. His domestic unhappiness
involved him in a great deal of
misery, but Mr. Browning very
nobly came to his help and did him
infinite service. ' Whatever he may
profess,' says Mr. Browning, 'the
thing he really loves is a pretty girl
to talk nonsense with.'
There has hardly been for years
past a literary biography so full and
perfect as this by Mr. Forster. It
would be easy to cull many pas-
sages of very great literary and
social interest. One only criticism,
which we advance with much diffi-
dence, is, that there might have
been more compression and the book
be brought within narrower limits.
Also, upon the whole, we are doubt-
ful whether Landor sufficiently de-
served such an elaborate biography.
Although he is probably destined
for a still higher fame than he has as
yet received, the thoroughly Greek
character of his mind will only in-*
sure him an audience fit and few.
Besides his Greek we are afraid he
was a thorough heathen. In intel-
lectual power he touched the nadit;
in moral power he sunk ahnost below
zero.
TEE ItOYAL ACADEMY.
We would not that the Boyal
Academy should gloriously inan«
gurate the Eccond century of ite
bright existence within ite new and
noble halls without a word of greet-
a a
84
The PieeadiUff Pcgpers.
iDg from the Peripatotio. The edi-
fice itself formB the most remarkable
item of the present ezhibitioiL The
critics have now all had their say,
and, of course, have been obliged to
be critical ; but allowing the grumble
that there is only one spacious room
for the sake of the banquet, we believe
also that the smaller rooms form ad-
mirable galleries. There has also
been a great deal of grumbling
about the pictures, and it may be
granted both that there have been
some unfair disappointment, and
also that some of the Academicians
have much too liberally availed
themselves of the space which is
coDstitutionally at tneir disposal.
Still I maintain, contrary to much
very positive opinion, that the ex-
hibition of this year is, as an exhi-
bition, exceedingly good. There
are paintings here which, in the
effect which they produce upon the
spectator, and in the memaries which
they leave behind, arerarely equalled.
There are few more deb'ghtnil em-
ployments than the gradual accumu-
lation of notes to one's fresh copy of
the Catalogue, now in tinted cover
and minu8 the choice quotation as
motto. We are not disappointed
in the names there, nor yet m the re-
sults to be associated with the names.
We go at once to Landseer, Poole,
Millus, Creswick, dope, O'Neil,
Frith, Goodal, and a few other cele-
brated men, and then we leisurely
work through the new or rising
names to see with whom may rest
the palm on account of the 'in-
genium et labor.' But though plea-
sant to make annotations, it would
hardly be fair, at this time of the
da^, to transfer the annotations to
prmt; otherwise we would like to
diBOUss at length the savage power
shown in Landseer's greatest but
painful picture of the Swannery at-
tacked by Sea-eagles ; Millais's stately
women aod beautiful children, when
perhaps, the drapery allows him to
work rather too rapidly ; the exqui-
site oriental pictures of Lewis,
where (in 157) many worthy souls
puzzle themselves to find out the
letter; Poole's Lorenzo and Jessica,
and so on; to point out our fa-
vourites to the fnendly reader, and
entreat him to admire them with us.
As each man takes his special favour-
ite, we will avow that Faed's little
picture, ' Alone by Herself,' in the
simplicify of its pathos and poetry
is unique in the exhibition. As an
example, too, of sound honest study
expended on a fine passage of Uterary
history we greatly like Mr. Crowe's
* Penance of Dr. Johnson, 768.' He
stood in the rain all day in the mar-
ket-place at Uttoxeter, to expiate the
sin of disobedience to his father.
Many have laughed over the inci-
dent, but the truest criticism was
that of an old lady, ' And let us hope
the sin was expiated.'
Next to Mr. Woolner's works,
perhaps the most interesting speci-
men is the Princess Louise's excel-
lent head and bust of the Queen.
Here the intimate knowledge of her
mother has supplied touches unat-
tainable to the sculptor. The Prin-
cess stands in the first rank of ama-
teur art, and perhaps something
more. But we have only time to
greet the new halls, and bid them,
literally, adieu. We had only as-
signed ourselves a very bri^ space
for this, and the space is full.
TBI lATE O. H. TH0MA8*8 EXHI-
BITIOK OF PAINTINGS.
From the various exhibitions we
can only devote a brief space to the
exhibition of the pictures of the late
Mr. G. H. Thomas, not unmindful
of the genius and good taste with
which he so often adorned our pages.
We may venture regretfully to think,
that with all his exceUenoe he had
hardly reached his culminating
point when he was out off by pre-
mature death. In his numerpus
works there is abundant proof of
the conscientiousness, thoroughness,
study, and thought which are often
such large constituents in genius,
and which corresponded so well
with the well-known high and
kindly nature of the man. No one
had a swifter and more discern-
ing eye than her gracious Majesty,
to observe and give judicions en-
couragement to this artist's ex-
traordinary ability. The Queen's
numerous contributions to this ex-
hibition give it ore of its best
charms, and attest how much she
THe Piceadittp Papers.
85
Talned the nnmerons compositioos
that were done at her command.
Going carefally throagh this ool-
lection of 170 pictures and draw-
ings, one is greatly stnick by the
immense yersatiUty they display.
The fftoes of little children and of
fiur women, manly energy in all the
life and movement of the human
figure, pastoral landscape with rivu-
let or river, bits of sea or woodland,
the glorious sky of Italy or the sky
hardly less glorious of England on
a deep summer day — touches of
pathos, of humour, of tenderness, of
reflection, are everywhere around
us, of a pretty uniform high order
of excellence. Nothing is more re-
markable than the way in which the
artist has seized very different de-
partments, such as foliage in the
' Apple-blossom,' or horses, such as
in the wonderful painting of Master-
lees,' or, again, French subjects as in
the ' Dimanche/ in a way so thorough
and earnest that he might have con-
centrated his artist life in any one of
thedirections indicated. Some of the
pictures suggest more or less criti-
cism, but with tiiis we do not here
propose to trouble our readers. A
great interest attaches to those cases
where we are able to compare the
earlier studies with the finished
design, or to note the point where
the cunning hand of the limner was
arrested. It gives a peculiar in-
terest to the collection to know that
throughout his later career the
gifted industrious artist was strug-
gling against disease.
We were greatly struck with the
picture which is first in the Oatap-
logue, 'The Train.' Prith's 'Rail-
way Station' was a great picture,
but our artists have not yet done
for modem locomotion what their
predecessors have done for the road.
The ndl may seem a prosaic and
commonplace subject, but Mr.
Thomas shows us how much beauty
it may yield. It is a long railway
cutting through woodland arched
by a viaduct An express train
comes tearing along at full speed.
A group of rustics, women and
children, are watching with won-
dering, half-fearful fiices. The time
is evening, and the long wreath of
curling steam contrasts well with
the leaden clouds, and through a
rent in them the blood-red sun looks
down upon the pictura The sub-
ject is real enough in all conscience,
but it has both poetry and mystery.
The paintmg to which we have al-
luded above, ' Masterless * (9), is, to
our mind, the most remarkable in
the collection. It is his most ideal
painting. It is also his last, a pro-
phecy of what might have been in
the future. The sun sets in a wild
tempest of glory on a barren heath,
and over this comes careering, in
mad infuriated flight, a riderless
horse; the cloaks and holsters have
slipp^ aside ; the startled eye and
smoking nostril seem to tell us that
he is flying from the horror of the
battle-field in wild search for his
master, and that the weakness of
fatigue will soon check his speed.
The picture of animal suffering and
fidelity amid the desolation of war
and nature is exceedingly touching
and suggestive, and instinct with
that dramatic action which this ar-
tist developes so peculiarly well.
We proceed firom pictures to
groups of pictures. It so happened
that we had just returned from a
run in the Isle of Wight, reviving
former impressions, and so were
able to judge freshly of the nu-
merous sketches from the island^
Shanklin, Freshwater, Alum Bay^
&c., and their extraordinary fidelity
to special details. The numerous
landscapes have a truth at once
frankly recognised by memory and
the heart. Those of our readers
who, when staying at Boulogne,
had an opportunity of becoming
acquainted with the inner life of the
camp will enjoy wonderfully the
picture of the * Ball.' We perceive
that this is about to be engraved on
steel. Thegrisette in 'Dimanche'
would do for Victor Hugo's ' Fta-
tine ' in that bright summer day at
St. Oloud. The pictures in the col-
lection which are historical, as time
goes on will acquire a constantly
increasing value. They are mainly
the Queen's property. We observe-
that (170) * The First Distribution
of the Victoria Gross' is also to be
engraved.
This collection in the Lawrence
Gk&llery, New Bond Stieety has oer-
S6
The Piccadittg P€gfer9.
tai]i]y a nniqne intereei It should
be Btadied as a whole, with its
stamp of distanctiye indmdiiality.
The laboaiB of a life-time are
brought together, in graduated
steps of excellence ; we tiaoe a life-
history throughout their diTersities
and affluence of skill. As a oollec-
tioD, we have said enough to inti-
mate our opinion that it is one of
the most remarkable ever submitted
to the public, and we may also add
that in its hints and teachings in-
dicative of progTMsiye steps in true
work and workmanship, it nas a real
educational value.
HDTAXBS nf IiDlB.
I met with a very able man some
time ago who ingeniously argued
that there were no such things as
mi^Akes in lifew He was in eveiy-
tiung an optimist : ' Whatever is» is
right' I should have been glad to
have coincided in a view of things
so eminently cheerful and consola-
tory. I put the case rather ooAiaely
and practically to him. 'Suppose
you broke your leg.' My friena re-
plied with much fervour that such
an aocident would really prove an
eicellent thing for him. Now there
is a case 'on &b books' in which a
Iwoken leg turned out to be a signal
advantage. There was a good bishop
who was arrested in the Maiian
times and ordered to be brought up
to London. He was noted for his
implicit belief in a providential order
of things. Coming up to town on
his way he fell and broke his leg.
When he was asked whether tiiat
accident was for the best, he unhesi-
tatingly relied ' Certainly.' Which
turned out to be the case, for he was
detained on the road, and while he
was detained Queen Mary died. His
broken leg saved him from the stake.
My fiiend was not arguing the mat-
ter on theological grounds, for I am
afraid he clings to the dreary nega-
tions of positivism, or his notion
might have required a different line
of discussion. He was discussing
the matter on the principles of tbo
broadest philosophy, and according
to this there was nothing to prevent
his breaking his leg if he thou^t
that a desirable oonsummation. He
would, I think, regret such a step
as a very serious mistake in life.
So far from the optimist theory
being true, there is nothing of which
human life produces a more plen-
tiful crop than mistakes. I remem-
ber that Sir James Qraham refused
to join a vote of censure ona minis-
try that was thought to have com-
mitted a peat mistake, because he
was ocmscious, he said, that he had
made so many mistakes himself.
That is the most brilliant man, not
who makes the most brilliant hits,
but who makes the fewest mistakes.
This is, I believe, an axiom with all
military writers. Some of Napo-
lecm's finest fighting was a mistake,
and I believe it can be proved to
demonstration that the Duke of
Wellington nuMle several eonspi-
onous blunders on the field of Water-
loo. He won, not because he made
no blunders, but beoanse Napoleon
made more.
Lord Derby once got himself into
ill odour by repeating the c^cal
French saying that a certain line of
oonduot was worse than a sin, for it
was a mistake. This is not a real
antithesis, because, both etymdo-
gically and in substance, the two
W(»ds are synonymous. The old
Greeks took sin, or what they re-
garded as such, to be a blunder and
amistake. We see this often enough
in common experienca I never see
a case of dshbevate jilting— when
an honest man is thrown overboard
by a heartless fiirt» or an honest girl
is jilted by some ]|ght-oMov»— but
I know that there is an unpleasant
kind of Nemesis hovering in the air.
There were few more impressive
speeches than that in whidi the late
Lord Cranworth sentenced Rush, the
Jermy-hall murderer, to be hung,
and told him that if he had kept his
promise of marrying the principal
witness against him, the policy of
the law would have sealed her lips,
and in all probability he would have
been acquitted. There is no doubt
but the wretched man felt that he
had made a very material mistake
in life. •
But we are not concerned with
matters so melodramatic as this.
When men come to a certain age
they begin to analyse emotkms, to
The PiecaXUp Papm.
87
critioise past transactioiis, ami be-
come deeply meditative on the past
Tbej will sometimos make yoa
dzeamy half oonfidences, and tell
yoa that there was a time when at
a certain point the path of life be-
came biforoated, aal they turned
to the left hand when they ongbt to
have tamed to the right That was
their fatal error. Everything would
have gone well with them if they
had not made a particular mistak».
Now I believe there is a great deal
of oonfosion of thought on tbis sub-
ject Men confound what is aod-
dental with what is essential They
think that a particular act was
isolated and accidental, whereas, as
a matter of fiekot, it is simply part of
an orderly sequence of events. It
is the legitimate consequent of ante-
cedents—it is the logical outcc»ne of
a certain tone and c^tfacter. A man
is killed while huntiDg or drowned
while bathing. It is often called an
aoddent, while it is (rften nothing of
the kind. The horse did not suit
him, the style of country did not
euit Mm, hunting had altogether
ceased to suit hioL Or the man
bathed too fax firon land ex amid
.currents or amid rooks. And in
either case the man knew that he
was running a kind of risk, but the
risk seemed remote, and the thought
I wiUchanee it occurred to his mind.
And in time he ran through his
chances and got killed. So I have
met some youths who have only
missed some sublime academic dis-
tinction through some slight mis-
take of their own— or of the eza-
miners. Th^ had read all their
books most carefully ezoept some
particular author, and on that author
they were wrecked. The real fact
is that our scholar was an inaccu-
rate and desultory reader, and this
led to a fall in his class. Another
man might have got a good thing if
he had only applied in time, but
another ' had stepped in before hioL'
In point of fiEUJt the man was un-
punctual and unbusinesslike; he
had not suffered much from such
bad habits before, but all at once they
had 'eventuated* in such a catas-
trophe. Another man makes a mar-
riage which turns out to be unwise
or unhappy; but the fellow had
been loafing about for years, not
caring to whom he made love so
that he carried on that exciting pas-
time. And then he met some <me
who at least had the tact to play
the game a stroke more skilfully
than himsrif, and so he got mated
and checkmated at the same
time.
In most instances we see that
there has been aconf usion of thought
The mistake is, in fact, the sum of a
series of mistakes— the last factor in
a long line of figures. It is not an
isolated blunder, but the reapmg
of a sowing. Sometimes there is
something very touching in the con-
feesions which (me hears from those
who would desire to tell their sto-
ries, or perhaps in those confessions
which a man makes to himsolf.
When a man has invested all his
money in, Oveiend and Qumey one
hardly likes to enter into an elabo-
rate argument to prove that this
was not an isolated blunder, but the
natural result of a wroi^ twist of
mind^tiiis desire for a high return
of money, this thirsting for the iMo-
fits of the trader, this unpatriotic
contempt for the safe and solid
Three per Cents. Sometimes^ how-
ever, there is the comfortable office
of explainii^ to a troubled mind
that the misteke is not a great <me
after all lamattingindimeollege
rooms, where luxury and art ;have
been grafted on the noble limary,
where the painted oriel and the
vase, bronses, and gems minister to
an aesthetic sense. My companion
pale and thin, now a little old and
worn. He tells me that he is a dis-
appomted man, that he made a grsat
mistake in life. He laid a wide and
deep foundation, but he has reared
no superstructure. He meant— as
other men have meant and carried
out theur meaning— to have done
supremely well at Oxford, and so to
have climbed on to statesmanship or
the bar; but he became so gocxl a
scholar as to be good for nothing
else besides. Law did not come
easy to him, oratory was impossible:
so he threw up the experiment and
came back to Oxford to take pupils,
to fulfil the humble offices of the
college dons, to edit editions of one
of the fathers. There is no fsune
88
A Bmek of Withered VioleU.
for him, and as he is a layman, no
wife or child or pleasant rural home.
I deny that my friend has made a
mistake. We have need of men
snch as he is who in gentle culture,
refinement, and inteUigenoe should
be in the Tan of society. They,
eren more than our nobles, accord-
ing to Burke's image, fonn the trae
Corinthian capital of the pillar of
the stata Then again I find a man
who is immersed in business. The
claims of his work upon him are so
enormous that he cannot take re-
pose, or even if he takes repose he
cannot do so with a glad, full heart,
but strictly subordinates his leisure
to his work, as we wrap precious
things in wool and linings. He,
too, is troubled with some Tague,
remorseful notions that he has made
mistakes in life. He had no business
to enter on a life that gires him no
leisure. I tell him that our business
in this world is to be busy; that his
activity is of more use to others
and to himself than his leisure
would be, and there will be rest in
due time. Perhaps he will tell me
— I haye heard such thinfips said —
that he ought to haye married a girl
with money, and then he might rest
without haying to work so hard for
his iamily. I would hardly yenture
in formal tenns to combat snch an
unmanly argument Suppose all
men should wish to marry girls with
money: here is an argumenium ad
aheurdum to begin with. I am im-
patient witli men who are impatient
of work. The cleyerest and weal-
thiest and most illustrious of Eng-
lishmen are amongst the hardest
workers. You tell me, my small-
minded friend Jones, that yon are
harassed, and oyerworked, and too
anxious, and haye a multiplicity of
botherations and cares, and that all
this has come upon you because at
a critical time yon made a mistake
in lifew It is the proper state of life
that snch a state of things should
be, and that which has brought it
about cannot be a mistako.
I know that my philosophy will
seem shallow enough to those who
know that they haye made mistakes
that axe not susceptible of such light
healings, or perhaps of any healings.
Yet eyen the mistake that has
eyoked the clear yision of remorse or
the sincere tear of repentance is not
unsusceptible of alleyiating consi-
derations. I haye beard it said that
a man cannot be a great author till
he has had a great sorrow; which
is true so to as it embodies the
truth, that the great mistske which
leads to great sorrow also yields
fruit that may counterbalance the
original fimlt. As Schubert, the
great musician, said, in sorrow
there is something that fructifies the
intellect and purifies the mind, while
joy deadens mtellect and heart; as
our own Tennyson says, the soul,
as a weapon, must be foi^ged through
baths of hissing tears for shape and
use; as the large-hearied and glo-
rious poetess, Elizabeth Barrett
Browning, said in her allegorical
poem of tibe god Fan— ,
* Tet balf A bcjut te the great god Fttn,
A beut M he sits by the riTer»
Haldng a poet out of a man.
The true gods weep for the grief and the paln^
For the reed that grows noTcr won agsln
As a reed by the reeds of the riTer.'
A BUNCH OP WITHEBED VIOLETS.
COLOUBLESS, tumbled, and iiEided,
Scentless and dead.
Withered stalks and old thread.
But I'd giye my life could I lie where they did*
Found as I looked for some trifle
In some odd place —
Bushed the blood to my face.
And a cry to my lips that 1 scarce could stifle*
A £ttiie& of Withered Vw'eU. 89
Last week I thongbt it was endedj
Over and done ;
That I'd conqaered and won ;
Now they've opened the woaad, and it can't ba mended.
Ck>olI J and calmly I'd reckoned
Thinking for hoars ;
And a banch of old flowers
Sent my coolness and calmness adrift in a second.
Back it all came madly rnshing —
Ball-room and ball.
And the seat in the hall
Where I asked, and she gave^ half averted and bloshlng.
Sitting apart through the Lancers,
Somehow I dared —
And she gave them, half scared.
And looked round, and then oat came the rest of the dancers.
Scarcely a word was spoken.
Only she gave ;
And I went home her slave,
Tet proud as a king, with my sacred token«
She had worn them, I know, from eleyen —
Worn them till three,
When she gave them to me;
And I think they had been for four hours in heayen.
Oan you guess where it was that she wore them
Nestled away?
Why it is that I say
I could kneel down this minute and worship before thorn ?
Can you guess why some dry leaves and cotton
Thrill through my heart?
Why my pulse gave that start,'
When I found those dead blossoms, a while forgotten?
They lay close to some beads that kept falling
Only to rise
' With her laugh and her sighs.'
Can you guess why the memory still is enthralling ?
Tennyson's fair ' Miller s Daughter '--
Bead it and learn
Why my cheeks throb and bum.
Did she think, as she gave, of that soag I had taught her?
Yet she was wrong in her kindness ;
I wrong to take ;
But she gave for my sake.
And I asked, though I knew it was madness and bllniness.
Blindness, because on the morrow
AUmust beo*er;
There could never be more ;
And though she would forget, I could only reap sorrow.
Here are the flowers all faded.
Scentless and dead,
Withered stalks and old thread ;
But rd give my life could I lie where they did. B.
90
VERY OLD PEOPLE.
A CORRESPONDENCE of a sin-
galar kind is going cm in the
public joornals^ on a Bubject ^hich
yraa originally started by the late
8ir George Lewis, the eminent states-
man and acute thinker— is there any
person more than a hundred years
ddf The Tery statement of such
a qnestian seems absurd ; for we are
no more in the habit of doubting
this fact than that Daniel Lambert
was very fai, or General Tom
Thumb Tery short And yet this
was the question which Sir George
propounded. He expressed a doubt
whether there is any thoroughly con-
clusive evidence — evidence which
would satisfy both a logician and
a lawyer— of a person having over-
lived one hundred years. He de-
clared that, in every case he had
examined, tiiere was some loophole
or other, some point 1^ insuffi-
ciently verified. When this matter
was started in ' Notes and Queries,'
it brought forward a multitude of
rejoinders; and when, at different
periods since, it has occupied atten-
tion in the ' Times/ the challenge
has been accepted by a still larger
number of eager combatants.
Country clergymen, especially, and
others acquainted with the litera-
ture of tombstones and parish regis-
ters, have been very earnest in their
assertion that centenarianism is a
fact which ought not for an instant
to be doubted.
Let us notice, first, some of the
alleged fiicts ; and then, the reasons
which have; suggested incredulity
on the subject. A book was pub-
lished about the beginning of the
present century, containing notices of
more than seventeen hundred persons
reputed to have lived to the age of a
hundred or upwards; but the author
or compiler was so ready to swallow
anything marvellous, so indisposed
to cautious inquiry, that we will
dismiss him altogether. We will
gather a few instances from chron-
icles, obitaaries, and registers of
various kinds, sufficient to show
the general nature of the belief on
this subject Let us leave untouched
the deoide between loo and no
years old; seeing that Sir George
Lewis admitted before he died that
even he had been convinced by some
of the instances adduced: that is,
he could detect no flaw in the evi-
dence that a few persons had lived
to an age between loo and no. We
will start from the last-named date«
and so travel onwazds.
Popular statements aangnthe age
of no to John Locke, who was
baptized in 171 6 when three years
old, and buried atLarling, in Nor-
folk, in 1S23 ; to an old woman at
Enniskilien, who was bom in i754f
and was alive in 1864; to Philip
Luke, who had been cabin boy
under Lord Anson so fiur back as
the time of George I., and was
living at Lame in Ireland in 1836 :
and to Mary Balphson, who followed
her soldier-husband to the wars in
the time of George II., fooght by his
side m the uniform of a wounded
dn^oon who had fidlen dose to her,
and died in 1808 at Liverpool.
Then there was Betfy Boberts, who
was bom at Northop in Flintshire
in 1749, and was living at Liverpool
in 1859 with a brisk young fellow
of 80 as her son. The age of in
has been claimed for John Oiaig,
who fought at Sheriffinuir in i7i5»
and died at Kilmarnock in 1793;
and for the Bev. Biohard Lufkin,
who died at Ufford in Suffolk in
1678, and who preached a sermon
the very Sunday before his death.
Concerning the age of na, there
was Toney Procter, who was negro
servant to an English officer at
Quebec so fiir back as i759> and
yet lived to see the year 1855 ; and
there was Isabel Walker, who died
in 1774, and whose engraved por-
trait is in the Museum of the Anti-
quarian Society at Perth. But a
more curious instance was that
which was connected with a con-
vivial meeting held at a tavern in
the metropolis in 1788, to celebrate
the centenary of the revolution of
1688 ; an old man said he was iia
years old, and remembered the revo-
lution as having occurred when he
was a lad: of course his convives
chaired him in triumph. The age
of n 3 is claimed for Michael Boyne,
who died at Armagh in 1776; Mrs.
Very OU People.
91
GiUam^ who died in Aldorsgaie
Skeet in 1761: • man in whose
memocy a tomfaatone vaa pat np
in Bocbe Abbey Oboroh in 1734,
and whose son lived to be 109 ; and
the Bey. Patrick Machell YiTiaa,
Ticar of Leabnry, near Akiwiok,
who was born in 1546, and wrote
« letter in 1657 (when 11 1 years
old), in which he said, ' I was nerer
of a &t, bat a slender mean habit of
body.' Two other instances are,
William Garter, who had been a
sergeant in the army, and who died
in 1768 ; and Patrick Grant, a yete-
ran of the Battle of GollodeD, who
sorfiyed till 1834. If we want eyi-
dence of Hie age of 114, we aie re-
liurred to a tombstone in Mooross
Abbey, Eillarn^, which bears the
epitaph— 'Erected by Daniel Shine,
in meBK>ry of his &ther, Owen Shine,
who departed this liie April 6th,
1847, aged 114 years. Pray lor
him.'
We now go ontoanother groapof
five years. What say the advocates
of 115? Nothing that we need
dwell npon heie; bat among those
for whom have been claimed the
age of 116 yean, we find Bobert
Pooles, who died at Tyross, in Ar-
magh, in 174a; John Iiyon, whose
death took place at Bandon in 1761 ;
and Mrs. MJaiy Power, aont of the
late Bight Hon. Bichaid Lalor Sbeil.
David Kerriaon, a soldier of the
Ammcan BerofaitioB, died at Al«
bany in 185a at the age of 117 ;
which was also the age claimed
for Donald M'Gregor, a Skye fiurmer
in the last oeirtary. Mr. John
Biva, a stockbroker, died in 1771
at the age of xi8, having been ac-
customed to walk tooffice till within
a few days of his death; and if the
parish Mgister of Irthingtcm, in
Korthomberland, is to be relied
npon, of similar age was Bobert
Bowman, when he died in 1829.
In a hoi^ital at Moscow, there was
an <dd man, who was wont to say
that he enlisted in the Bossian army
in the time of Peter the Great; if
so, he coald hardly have been less
than 119 at the time when an
English traveller visited him a few
years ago. Mr. Sn^d, in 1833, saw
a gaunt, large-limbed, exceedingly
wnnkled old woman at Lansldbourg,
in Savoy, who said she was bom in
1714^ And remembered events that
took place in 1721.
Of course when we come to ages
between 120 and 130, we must not
expect the instances to be very nu-
meroos; but let us jot down a few
from various aathorities. The age
of lao has been claimed for Ursula
Chicken (what a chicken I), who
diedat Holdemessin 1722 ; William
Jugall, a feithfdl old servant of the
Wetister ftmilv, at Battle Abbey, in
Sussex, who died in 1798, and to
whom a monument was erected in
Battle churchyard ; Mr. Charles Cot-
trell, who died at Philadelphia in
1761, leaving a wife (aged 115), to
whom he had been married ninefy-
eight years; and a Duchess of Bnc-
clengh, who (according to a volume
published by the Bev. John Dun, of
Aachinle^) had ' lived twenty years
a maiden, fifty years a wife, and fifty
yean a widow/ and died in 17^8.
'Blackwood's Magazine' spoke in
182X of a Mr. Charles Leyne^ who
had just then died at the age of
I ai in the United States, having
lived there under four British sove-
reigns before the rupture in 1774:
he left a widow no years old. A
hoaiy-headed neno, who was one of
the lions of New York at the time of
the International Exhibition of 1853
in that city, was said to be 124 years
old; but we do not know whether
this was one of Mr. Bamum's won-
deiB. The Bodleian Library contains
a news-letter of June i, i724> in
which is a pangiaph to the effiact,
that, as the courtiers weie going to
St James's to be presented to George
I., they were attracted by a venc-
rabla woman, who stated herself to
be 124 years old; she had kept a
shop at Kendal during the Civil
Ware in the days of Charles L,
and was the mother of nine ddl-
dren at the time when the unfortu-
nate m(maroh was executed (1649).
An epitaph in All Saints' Church,
Northampton, celebrates the name
of a person who died in 1 706 at the
a^ of 126. A 'History of Vir-
ginia,' which gives a tough list of
very aged persons in that state, in-
cludes the name of Wonder Booker,
a slave who received the first of
these two names because he wob a
98
Very Old People.
wonder; he worked m his master^B
garden till 117 jean old, and died
in 1 8 19 at the age of ia6, haying
been born in the reign of Queen
Elizabeth. Owen Tndor, who
boasted of being descended from
Henry VIL, died at Llangollen,
1 77 1, at the i^e of 127. This
was also recorded as the age of
John Newell, who died at Michaels-
town in 1 761 ; he claimed to be the
grandson of the celebrated old Parr
(of whom we shall speak presently).
The ' Gentleman's Ma^izine ' in
177a recorded the death of Mr.
Abraham Strodtman, at the age
of 128. London claimed to have
an inhabitant of the same age in
1724, in the person of Mrs. Jane
Skrimshaw.
Another decade, embracing ages
between 1 30 and 740, is not with-
out its records in the pages of county
histories and antiquarian publica-
tions. William Beatty, a soldier
who had fought at the Battle of the
Boyne in 1690, died in 1774 at the
age of 130. Peter Garden figures
in an engraving contained in the
Perth Museum as haying died in
1775 ftt the age of 131. Meb. Keith,
who died at Newnham in 1772 at
the age of 133, left behind her three
daughters, one of whom was a fiiir
damsel of 109. Louis Mntel, a free
negro in St Lncia, was reputed to
be 135 years old when he died in
1851 : althongh he married so late
in life as 55, ne survived that event
eighty years. 'Silliman's Journal'
mentions one Henry Francisco in a
more circumstantial manner than is
usual in this class of records. He
was born in 1686, left France in
1 69 1, witnessed the coronation of
Queen Anne in 1702, fought under
Marlborough, then went to America,
was wounded and taken prisoner
during the American war, and was
living near Albany in 1822, at the
age of 136. The venerable age of
138 is put down for one Joan
M DoQsgh, who died at Ennis, in
Ireland, in 1768.
We may well suppose that lives
of seven score must be few and far
between, even when credulity comes
to our aid. A parish register at
Everton, Bedfordshire, mentions the
Bev. Thomas fiudyard, vicar of that
parish, as having died at the age of
140 during the reign of Charles IL
A negro, named Easter, is set down
as having attained a like age in 1854.
But themoet fisimousinstance was that
of the Ck>unte8Sof Desmond—- a sub-
ject of much and eager controversy.
Whether such a person ever lived at
all, and whether, if she lived, there
is any really trustworthy evidence
of her age, are questions which have
been treated at full in no less im-
p^nt a work than the 'Quarterly
Review.' The popular account, at
all events, in, that she was bom iD
the second half c^ the fifteenth cen-
tury; that she married the Earl of
Desmond in Edward IV.'s time;
that she had three complete den-
titions or sets of natural teeth during
her long career; that she appeared
at the court of James L in 1614;
and that she was wont to go to
market on foot almost down to the
day of her death at the age of 140.
But we have now to speak of
venerable persons who are claimed
to have exceeded the longevity even
of the tough old Countess. A slab
on the floor of Abbey Dore Church,
Herefordshire, records the death of
Elizabeth Lewis, in 171 5> ftt the age
of 141 ; and the parish register of
Frodsham, in Cheshire, contains the
name of Thomas Hough, who, if the
Boman numerals are correct (oxli),
died at the same aga During ft
celebrated honddic contest in 1385,
between Lord Scrope and Sir £U>-
bert Grosvenor, it became important
to obtain the oldest available living
testimony concerning the holding of
certain titles and insignia; and
among the witnesses brought for-
ward were Sir John Sully, aged 105,.
and especially John Thirlwall, an
esquire of Northumberland, aged
145. Whether the judges had any
doubt of the correctness of this
alleged age we are not told. There
are, considering the circumstances,,
remarkably full details conceming^
another veteran of 1 45, named Chris-
tian Jacobson Drachenberg. He
was bom in Sweden in 1626, lived
chiefly as a sailor till 1694, and was
then made a captive by Barbary
corsairs. Being kept as a slave till
1 710 he made his escape, and served
again as a seaman till 17 17, when
7ery Old PecpU.
98
be was 91 years old. At the age of
ic6» beiug indigDant at incredulity
^xpiessed concerning his age, he
walked a long distance on porpose
to procure a certificate of tne year
of his birth. In 173s he waspxe-
«ented to the King of Denmark ; and
in 1737 ?is fnameti — a brisk bride-
groom of 109 to a blooming widow
of6ol He walked about in the
town of Aarhuns in 1759 at the age
of 133 ; but his ^elidis hung down
fio completely over his eyes that he
oould not see. Thirteen more years
were in store for him, seeing that
he did not die till 1772, when he
had completed his 145th year. The
oaae was considered sufficiently im-
portant to deserve a place in Mr.
Charles Knight's 'English Cyclo-
psddia/ where there is an article on
' Dracheoberg/ attributed to one of
the most trustworthy of our literary
men. In Boate luid Molyneux's
* Natural History of Ireland' a notice
occurs of Mr. £ckelstan, who was
bom in 1 548, and died at Philips-
town in 1696, figures which, if cor-
rect, denote an age of 148.
The number 1 50 is rather a suspi-
cious one in these matters ; for, being
what is called a 'round' number,
persons are often tempted to use it
without much regard to strict accu-
racy. Francis Ck>nsit, who had been
a burthen to the purlsh of Malton
djuring great part of his life, was
said to be 150 when he died in 1768.
Lywaroh HSn (a Welshman appa-
rently) had the same age imputed
to him; as had likewise Sir Balph
Vernon, who was bom towards tne
end of the thirteenth century, and
liyed nearly to the middle of the
fifteenth. If the perish register of
MinshuU, in Cheshire, which says
that one Thomas Damme lived to
'sevenscore and fourteen years,' is
correct, this looks very much like
154. The most celebrated per-
sonage, however, who exceeded 150
years was that renowned Old Parr,
who always seems to be making and
taking 'life pills,' and whose por-
traits seem intended to show how
vigorous and venerable we shall all
become if we will only take the pills
in question. The tetttimony as Id
Thomas Parr's age seems to be tole-
rably complete. He was bom in
Shropshire in 1483, remained a
bachelor till 80 years old, married
in 1563, lived with this first wife
thirty-two years, became a widower
in 1595, married again in 1603
when he was 120 years old, and
lived to see the year 1635. ^^^ that
year the Earl of Arundel visited
him, and was so strack by his ap-
pearance as to invite him to come
to his town mansion. The old man
found this lionizing too much for
him; he was brought by very easy
stages in a litter to London, vrith
an 'antique-faced merry-andrew' to
keep him cheerful on ib.e way; but
the &tigue, the crowds of visitors
who came to see him, and the lux-
uries which were preased upon him
in London, carried him off at the
wonderful age of 15 a. He was
buried on November 15th, 1635, at
Westminster Abbey, where a monu-
ment was erected to his memory.
When presented on one occasion to
Charles I., the monarch said to him,
' You have lived longer than other
men; what have you done more
than other men?* To which Parr
replied, ' I did penance when I was
a hundred years old.' The trath
even went beyond this statement;
for he was ffuilty of a peccadillo
when a hundred and five years of
age, and did penance in a white
sheet at the door of the parish
church of Atterbury, his native vil-
lage
Shall we go beyond eight score?
Let us see. There was one John
Hovin, who died in 1741 at the
alleged age of 172, and who left a
widow destined to live till her 164th
year. There was Tairville, who, if
Martin's ' Description of the Western
Isles' is to be relied on, died in the
Shetland Isles at the age of 180.
There was Peter Torton, who gained
renown in 1724 as having survived
till 18 5 ; and there was Jane Britton,
who, as we are informed by the
parish register of Evercrick, in
Somerset, for 1588, 'was a maiden,
as she aflSirmed , of aoo years.' Leav-
ing this blushing maiden and her
compeers, we may observe that the
only well-authenticated case (if it is
authenticated) of eight score and
upwards was that of Henry Jenkins.
He was born in the year 1501.
94
Fery OU Feofle.
AfVhen a boy he carried a horse-load
of arzowfl to Northallerton to be
employed by the English army in
resisting the inyasion by James IV.
of Scotland ; and he lived to see the
year 1670, when he died at Ellerton-
apon-Swale^ in Yorkshire, at the
age of 169.
Now what axe we to think of all
these alleged cases of extreme old
age ? The grounds on which scep-
ticism has been expressed concern*
ing them axe numerous. It has
b^ pointed out that most of the
instances are among the humbler
classes of Scotch, Irish, and negroes,
where registers and formal entries
are but little attended to. The
mkldle and uppor classes, ameng
whom authentic records are more
plentiful, take but a .small part in
the marrels of hmgeyity. 'Oan
actuaries,' it is asked, ' refer us to a
single instance of an assured person
liying to a hundred and forty,
thirty, twenty, ten, ay, to one hun*
dxed and ten ?' The legal evidence
is abnost always deMent If an
entry of birth or baptism is found
in a family Bible, there is no proof
that it was written at the time of
the event, or that the dates were
correctly set down. In one case a
clergyman, investigating an alleged
instance of centenarianism, found
that the Bible which ccmtained the
entry was only sixty years old, and
that no other testimony wu forth-
coming. B^;iBterB of birth were
not fonnally and legally established
till after the year 1830; all such
registers before that dato were volun-
tuy and therefore uncertain. Sven
parish registers are not always re-
liable, for many of them, giving the
year of death, mention tne age of
the deceased but do not name the
year of birth, so that there are not
two dates to correct each other.
Sometimes tombstonesarere-chiseled
to restore the half-decayed epitaphs*
and then the village mason^ puzzled
at some of the partially-obliterated
figures, makes a guess at them, and
puts in the date or the age which
seems to him nearest like the ori«
ginal. There is a tombstone in
Conway churchjard recording the
&ct that Lowry Owens Yaughan died
in 1766 at the age of 19a, and tlat
her husband, William Yaughan, died
in 1735 at the age of 72. Now a
recent observer of the tombstone
has remarked that the lady must (if
this be true) have been nearly a
hundred years old when William
Yaugban married her; and as the
figures on the stone have a ratiier
freshly-cut appearance, he prefers
the supposition that 193 was an in-
correct remitting of an earlier inci-
sioD. The 'Worcester Chronicle,'
in 1852, drew attention to a tomb^
stone in Cleve Prior churchyard
which recorded the death of a person
at the startling age of 309 ; this ia
supposed to have been an ignorant
mason's way of exnessing 39, that
is 30 and 9-na kind of error not in-
frequent among the humbler cianes.
The 'Times' noticed in 1848 that
the register of Shorediteh pariah
contained an entry of Thomas Cam,
who died in T588 at the age of 207,
having lived in twelve reipns. An
investigator afterwards pointed out
that Sir Henry EUiis, in his 'History
of Shorediteh,' put down the age at
107 ; and an examination of the re-
gister elicited the &ct that ' i ' had
been altered to ' a' quite recently by
some mischievouB person who pro-
bably wished to poke fun at the
antiquaries. Instances of the Avow-
ing kind are known to have occurred.
A young married couple have a son
whom they name John, and who
dies in infancy ; twenty years after-
wards another son receives the simi-
lar name of John; and then, in
neighboun' gossip eighty years
afterwards, one John becomes con-
founded with the other, and a man
really eighty years old figures in
popular repute as a centenarian.
Some aged persons like to be con-
sidered older than they are, on ac-
count of the celebrity it gives them ;
and they do not shrink from a few
'crammers' to bring this about The
Bev. Mr. Fletcher, as he was called,
who was first a farmer, then a sol-
dier, then employed in the West
India Docks, and then a Methodist
local preacher, used to eay that he
was over a hundred years old : he
drew great crowds to hear such a
Ehenomenon preach. He probably
elieved himself to be as old as he
said, and at his death his age was
The Lay rf &e Crush Boom. 95
recorded as io8 ; bat a subsequent any evidence of her age bejond her
investigation showed that he was own assertioD.
much less instead of much more There can be no question that
than a centenaiian. The writer of this kind of incredulity renders ser-
tbis paper knew of an old woman vice, in so fur as it induces more
many years ago who obtained noto- careful examination into the testi-
rietv for being (ia her own words) mony for alleged facts of longevity.
* a hnndert iJl but two/ and for Nevertheless centenarianism (and a
being able to hold a sixpence hori- few years beyond the even hundred)
zontally between her nose and chin ; rest on too many and too varied
but he doubts whether there was data to be quite overthrown.
THE LAY OF THE CEUSH BOOM.
HIE ! Flunkeys from Belgravia I
Tight Tigers from Pall Mall I
From far and near you'd best appear.
To meet the coming swell.
A blaze of jewell'd splendour,
Of panoply and pride,
All down the crinison staircaaa
Queen Fashion soon will glida
Fnun every side they gather.
From box as well as stall.
Here, 'midst the flounced commotion.
Persistent linkmen bawl ;
Wigged coachmen lash their horses ;
Lean, powdered footmen sfaont
StraDge names along the anak rooov^
The Opera's coming oiit
Sweet maidens, fair as lliia%
O'er the Aubusson sweap;
Beat upon teclnation
To-night, before tfa^ sleep ;
For omshes and for balls.
And treats, in everlasting smU^
Against wax-lighted wallik
Awakened ftom their slumbeai.
Old gsntlemen repair
To quiet ' rubs,' in cosy doiM^
Or eon^rtable ohair.
Young prigs caress monstaahas^
Old toadies wince with gD«t ;
Kmg Bore attends them t» the dMr, —
'm Opera's coming ooft t
"Ekmd youth with tearful sgM^
Frond girl with lips that plif^
This crowd, which grows andgMlhera,
Will break and ebb awa^:
And then the words he whiigMed,
And she stood still to taHV^
Will keep her— well^froaaalMping,
And make him laugh next year.
Goodnight! and one is tremblmg.
Good night! and both in donM>
Will all be well ? Ah ! who can tell ?—
The Opera's coming out !
96
27m Lay of the Crush Boom.
See how they mix t6gether
In Ecarcely elbow room :
The grandson of the Dachess
With the daughter of the groom !
Fair necks with jewels glitter,
Which envious glances meet;
Some furnished from Golconda,
And some from Hanway Street !
Boll upon roll, in masses
Of hair, are heads arrayed,
Which Nature has presented.
Or drawn on the Arcade.
The daughters sigh ; the mothers eye ;
But still the liokmen shout,
* Qneen Fashion's carriage stops the way,' —
The Opera's coming out !
CO.
IHawii l#y tIanceSi4iiftri]'.
THE AUi
LONDON SOCIETY.
AUGUST, 1869.
APTBEN00N8 IN 'THE PABK/
THERE is a passage in old Pepys's
Diary, written two centuries
and odd ago, which, thanks to the
pNermanenoo of our English instita-
tionff, would do Tery well for the
present day : ' Walked into St
YOL. XVL^NO. XOn.
James's Park and there found great
and Tery noble alterations ....
1 66 a, July 27. I went to walk in
the Park, which is now every day
more and more pleasant by the new
works upon it^ Such
H
98
AftemoonB in ' the Park:
langnage is justly dae to Mr. Layaid
and tiis immediate predecessor at
the Board of Works. Sappoce that
I live at Bajswater, and my basiness
takes me down to Westminster eyery
day, it is certainly best for me that,
instead of taking 'bus, or cab, or
underground railway, t should, like
honest Pepys, saunter in the Park
and admire the many 'noble altera-
tions/ I venture to call poor Pepys
honest because he is so truthful;
but neyer thinking that his cipher
would be discovered he has men-
tioned in his Diary so many unprint-
able things, that I am afraid we must
use that qualifying phrase ' indiffe-
rently honest.' Several gentlemen
who live at Bayswater and practise
at Westminster may find that the
phrase suits well, and a man's moral
being may be all the better, as
through lawns and alleys and
copses, where each separate step
almost brings out a separate yignette
of beauty, he trayerses in a north-
westerly direction the whole length
of our Parks. He turns aside into
St. James's Park, and then goes
through the Green Park and crosses
Piccadilly to lounge through Hydo
Park, and so home through Ken-
sington Gardens. The alterations
this season in Hyde Park are Tery
noticeable. All the Park spaces
recently laid out have been planned
in a style of beauty in harmony with
what proyiously existed ; a beauty,
I think, unapproachable by the
msny gardens of Paris, or the Prado
of Madrid, the Gorso of Rome, the
Strado di Toledo of Naples, the
Glacis of Vienna. The most strik-
ing alterations are those of the Park
side near the Brompton road, where
the low, bare, uneven ground, as
if by the magic touch of a trans-
formation, is become exquisite
garden sfMices with soft undulations,
set with starry gems of the most
exquisite flowers, bordered by fresh-
est turf. The palings which the
mob threw down have been all
nobly replaced, and more and more
restoration is promi.^od by a Go-
yernment eager to be popular with
all classes. Most of all, the mimio
ocean of the Serpentine is to be re-
newed; and when its bottom is
leyelJed, its depth diminished, and
the purify of the water seoored, we
shall arrive at an almost ideal per-
fection.
As we fake our lounge in the
afternoon it is necessary to put on
quite a different mental mood as
we pass from one Park to another.
We pass at once from turmoil into
comparative repose as we enter the
guarded enclosure encircled on all
sides by a wilderness of brick and
mortar. You feel quite at ease in
that yast palatial garden of St
James. Tour oflSce coat may serve
in St Jameses, but you adorn your-
self with all adornments for Hjde
Park. You go leisurely along,
having adjusted your watch by the
Horse Guards, looking at the soldiers,
and the nurses, and the children,
glancing at the island, and looking
at the ducks— the dainty, overfed
ducks— suggesting all sorts of orni-
thological lore, not to mention low
materialistic associations of green
peas or sage and onions. ThoEe dis«
sipated London ducks lay their
heads under their wings and go to
roost at quite fashionable hours,
that would astonish their primitiye
country brethren. I hope you like
to feed ducks, my friends. All great,
good-natured people haye a ' sneak-
ing kindness' for feeding ducks.
There is a most learned and saga-
cious bishop who won't often show
himself to numan bipeds, but he
may be observed by them in his
grounds feeding ducks while phi-
losophising on things in general,
and the Irish Church Bill in par-
ticular. Then what crowded re-
miniscences we might haye of St
James's Park and of the Mall— of
soyereigns and ministers, courtiers
and fops, lords and ladies, philoso-
phers and thinkers 1 By this sheet
of water, or rather by the pond that
then was a favourite resort for in-
tending suicides, Charles II. would
play with his dogs or dawdle
with his mistresses; feeding the
ducks here one memorable morning
when the stupendous reyelation of
a Popish plot was made to his in-
credulous ears ; or looking grimly
tov^rds the Banqueting Hall where
his father perished, when the debate
on the Exclusion Bill was running
fiercely high. But the reminia-
AftemocmB in *tke Park.*
99
«enoeB are endless which heloog to
St James's ParL Only a few years
4igo there was the private entrance
which Jadge Jeffreys need to have
by special licence into the Park, bat
now it has been done away. There
were all kinds of sni)er8tition8 float-
ing abont in the uninformed West-
minster mind abont Judge Jeffreys.
What Sydney Smith said in joke to
the poaching lad^ ' that he had a
private gallows/ was believed by
the Westmonasterians to be real
earnest abont Jeffreys— that he nsed
after dinner to seize hold of any
individual to whom he might take
a fancy and hang him np in front
of his house for his own personal
delectation. I am now reconciled to
the bridge that is thrown midway
across, although it certainly limits
the expanse of the ornamental
water. But standing on the orna-
mental bridge, and looking both
westward and eastward, I know of
hardly anything comparable to that
view. That green neat lawn and
noble timber, and beyond the dense
foliage the grey towers of the Abbey,
and the gold of those Houses of
Parliament^ which, despite captious
criticism, will always be regarded
as the most splendid examples of
the architecture of the great Vic-
torian era, and close at hand the
paths and the parterres, cause the
miyesty and greatness of England
to blend with this beautiful oasis
islanded between the deeerts of
Westminster and Pimlico. Look-
ing westward too, towards Bucking-
ham Palace—the palace, despite ex-
aggerated hostile criticism, is at
least exquisitely proportioned ; but
then one is sorry to hear about the
Palace that the soldiers are so ill
stowed away there ; and the Queen
does not like it ; and the Hanoverian
animal pecuh'arly abounds. We ro-
collect that once when her Majesty's
was ill, aservant ran out of the palace
to charier a cab and go for the
doctor, because those responsible
for the household had not made
better arrangements. In enumo-
rating the Parks of London, we
ronght not to forget the Queen's
private garden of Buckingham Par
lace, hardly leas than the jQreen
Park in extend and so belonging
to the system of the lungs of
London.
But we now enter the great
Hjde Park itself, assuredly the
most brilliant spectacle of the kind
which the world can show. It is
a scene which may well tax all your
powers of reasoning and of phi-
losophy. And you must know the
Park very well, this large open
drawing-room which in the season
London daily holds, before you can
SufBoiently temper your senses to be
critical and analytical --before you
can eliminate the lower world, the
would-be fashionable element, from
the most affluent and highest kind of
metropolitan life — before you can
judge of the splendid mounte and
the splendid caparisons, between
fine carriages and fine horses —
fine carriages where perhaps the
cattle are lean and poor, or fine
horses where the carriages are old
and worn ; the carriages and horses
absolutely gorgeous, but with too
great a display ; and, again, where
the perfection is absolute, but with
as much quietude as possible, the
style that chiefly invites admira-
tion by the apparent desire to elude
it In St James's Park you may
lounge and be listless if you like;
but in Hyde Park, though you
may lounge, you must still be alert
. Very plodsaut is the lounge to the
outer man, but in the inner mind you
must be observant, prepared to enjoy
either the Eolitude of the crowd, or
to catoh the quick glance, the
silvery music of momentary merri-
ment, then have a few seconds of
rapid, acute dialogue, or perhaps
be beckoned into a carriage by a
friend with space to spare. As you
lean over the railings you perhaps
catch a sight of a most exquisite
face— a face that is photographed on
the memory for its features and
expression. If you have really
noticed such a face the day is a
whiter day to you; somehow or
other you have made an advance.
But it is mortifying, when you con-
template this beautiful image, to see
some gilded youth advance, soul-
less, brainless, to touch the fingers
dear te yourself and look into eyes
which he cannot fathom or com-
prehend. Still more annoying to
100
Ajienoom m ^ihe Park'
ihink that a game is goiDg on in
the matrimoDial money market I
gometimea think thai the Ladies'
Mile ia a Teritable female Tatter-
saU's, where feminine charms are
on Tiew and the price may be ap-
praised^the infinite gambols and
onrvettingB of high-spirited maiden-
hood. Bnt I declare on my oon-
scienee that I believe the Girl of
the Period has a heart, and that
the Girl of the Period is not so
much to blame as her mamma or
her chaperona
Bnt, speaking of alterations, I
cannot say that all the alterations
are exactly to my mind. It is not
at all pleasing that the habit of
smoking has crept into Botten Row.
The excnse is that the Prince
smokes. Bnt because one perBon,
of an exceptional and unique po-
sition, doubtless under exceptional
circumstances, smokes, that is no
reason why the mass should follow
the example. Things haye indeed
changed within the last few years;
the race is degenerating in polite-
ness. In the best of bis stories,
'My NoTcl,' Lord Lytton makes
Harley, his hero, jeer at English
liberty; and he says: 'I no mora
dare smoke this cigar in the Park
at half-past six, whfcu all the world
is abroad, than I dare pick mj
Lord Chancellor's pocket, or hit
the Archbishop of Oanterbury a
thnmp on the nose.* Lord Hather-
ley's pocket is still safe, and we
are not yet come to days, though
we seem to be nearing them, when
a man in a crowd may send a blow
into a prelate's face. We have had
such days before, and we may have
them again. But smoking is now
common enough, and ought to be
abated as a naisance. Some ladies
like it, and really like it: and that
is all very well, but other ladies
are exceedingly annoyed. A lady
takes her chair to watch the
moving panorama, intending per-
haps to make a call presently, and
men are smoking within a few
paces to her infinite annoyance
and the spoiling of her pleasure.
Her dress is really spoilt, and there
is the trouble of another toilet
Talking of toilets, I heard a calcu-
lation the other day of how many
the Princess of Wales had made in
a single day. She had gone to the
laying of the foundation sUme of
Earlswood Asylum, snd then to the
Saat State breakfast at Bucking*
m Palace, and then a dinner and
a ball, and one or two other things.
The Princess truly works very
hard, harder indeed than peoide
really know. I went the other oay
to a concert, where many a (me was
asked to go, and the Princess was
there, in her desire to oblige worthy
people, and sat it all through to
the very last with the pleasantest
smiles and the most intelligent
attention. Let me also, since I
am criticizing, say that the new
restaurant in the Park is a decided
innovation, and that to oomplete
the new ride, to carrjr Botten Bow
all round the Park, is certainly to
interfere with the enjo}ment of
pedestrians. It is, however, to bo
said, in justice, that the pedestrians
have the other parks pretty much
to themselves. There is, however,
a worse error still, in the rapid
increase of the demi-monde in the
Park. A man hardly (eels easy in
conducting a lady into the Park
and answering all the questions
that may be put to him respecting
the inmates of gorgeous carriages
that sweep by. These demireps make
peremptory conditions that they
shall have brooghams for the Park
and tickets for the Horticultural,
and even for the fdtes at the Bo-
tanical Gardens. This is a nuisance
that requires to be abated as muck
as any in Begent Street or the
Haymarkei The police ought to
have peremptory orders to exoludo
such carriages and their occupants.
Twenty years ago there was a dead
set made in Cheshire, against the as-
pirants of Liverpool and Manchester,
by the gentry of that county most
fiunoos for the pedigrees of the
gentry, who wish<^ to maintain the
splendonr of family pritia For in-
stance, the steward of a county ball
went up to a manufacturer who was
making his eighty thousand a year
and told him that no tradesman
was admitted. Timt was of course
absurd; but still, if that waa
actually done, an inspector ahoold
step up to the most faahionabla
AfUmoom in * the Parh'
101
Mabel or Lais/and tnrn her hones'
heads, if ohetreperoas, in the di-
rection of Bridewell or Bow Street
Anooyma has roled the Park too
much. The faTonrite drive need
to be round the Serpentine ; bat
when the prettiest eqnipage in
London drew all gazers to the
Ladies' Mile, the Serpentine became
comparatively nnnsed, and the
Ladies' Mile, gronnd infiniteljr in-
ferior, became the faTonrite until the
renovated Serpentine or change of
whim shall moold anew the fickle,
-volatile shape of fiishbnable vagary.
At this present time Mr. Alfred
Austin's clever satire ' The Season'
— the third edition of which is
jjost out— recurs to me. The ]^m
is a very clever onop and it is
even better appredatad on the
othe| side of the Channel than on
this,^ is evidenced by M. Forqnes'
article on the sabfect in the ' Bevne
des Deoz Mondes.' We will group
together a lew passages from Mr.
Austin's vigorous poem,* belonging
to the Parks.
' I ring the eeuao, Moae I wbon vinij extendt
WlierB ^yde IwgtaM b^ond where Tyborn ends ;
Qctietlw taiMd gkre^MTewlwrewith borrowed
Some taMto Fhrttoo nto the drive ablaa.
OMrpreiljfledClliifil oome flnoa conntiy nett.
To nIbUe, obirm Mid flutter In tbe west;
Wboee cicax. freah Dues, with tbeir fickle frown
And faToor, ■tart like Spring npoo tbe town ;
LeH dear, for damaged dameelik doomed to wait ;
Wboie thtrA-fporthf aeaaon makei balf dea-
WaUng with wannlh* tern potent boor bj boor
(At magneiB heated kae attractiTe power).
Or 700 nor dear nor damaela, tongb and tart.
Unmarketable maidena of tbe mart^
; Whob plnmpneM gone, fine detlOMj lUnt,
And bide joor itea in pir^ and iMiint.
•IneongriMMM group tbejeme; the Judged back.
With knaea at bnlMi M ita riders back :
Tbe counad'B oouraar, f*imWing ttam^ the
throng.
With wind e'en aborter than ita lord'a la long :
Tbe foreign maninta'a aocomiillabed colt
Sharing iia owner'a tendency to bolt
'Comt. let w back, and, whOat the Ftek'a allTc^
liean oTer the raningi^ and Inapect the DtiTn.
etill aweepa the long proeeaalon, wboee arraj
Oivca to the lonngsr'a gate, aa waaea the daj.
Its rich ntUnIng and n-poaeftil format
etui aa bright auniKts after misu or atorma;
'The SMaoo: a Satire.' By Alfred
Austin. New and revisHl edition (tbe
ibird). London: John Cunden Hotten.
1869.
Who ait and anile (their momfaig wrangUngi
o'er.
Or dragged and dawdled throngb one doll day
more),
Aa tboaiSh tbe life of widow, wife, and girt
Were one long lapelng and volnptnona wUiL
0 poor pretence I wbat eye* ao blind bat see
Tbe aad. bow«rver elegant, ennnl ?
Tbiuk yuu that blasoned panel, prandng pair.
Befuol our vlclun to the weight they bear?
The aofieat ribbon, plnk-llned paraaoU
Screen not tlie woman, though they deck the
duIL
The padded ooraaga and the wdl-matcbed hair,
Judldoua Jupon qMreading out tlie spare.
Sleeves well deidgned Ikbe plumpncaa to impart.
Leave vacant aUU tlie hollows of the heart;.
Is not our Lieabla lovdy ? In her aoul
Leabia la troubled : LeaUa bath a mole;
And all the aplendoors of that matchlei neck
Oonaole not Leabia %* iu atngle apeck.
Kale comae from Atftik and a wardrobe bcingi^
To which poor Edithli are
Her pet lace abawl baa grown not fit to wear.
And mined Edith dxesfca in deqpalr.'
Mr. Austin is sufficiently severe
upon the ladies, especially those
wnoee afternoons in toe Park have
some oorrespondenoe with their 'af-
ternoon of Ufa' I think that the
elderly men who ape youthful airs
are eyery whit as numerous and as
open to sazoasm. Your ancient
buck is always a &ir butt And
who does not know these would*be
juyeniles, their thin, wasp-like
waists, their elongated necks and
suspensury eye-glasses, their elabo-
rate and manufiiiotured hair? They
like the dissipations of youth so
well that they can oonoeive of
nothing more glorious, entirdy
ignoring that autumnal fruit is,
after all, better than the blossom or
fbliage of spriog or early autumn.
All they know, indeed, of autumn
is the Tariegation and motley of
colour. The antiquated juYenue is
certainly one of the yeriest subjects
for satire; and antiquated juyeniles
do aboundof an aftoioon m Botten
Bow. Nothing we can say about a
woman's naddmg can be worse than
the paddmg which is theirs. All
thehr idiotic grinning cannot hide
the hated crows'-feet about their
gogffle, idiotic eyes. They try, in-
deed, the power of dress to the ut-
most; but in a day when all classes
are alike eztrayagant in dress, efen
the fiftlsity of the first impression
wUl not saye them from minute
102
AfUirwHm tn ^ihe Park:
oriticfsm. Talk to them, and they
will draw largely on the lemiDis-
cenoes of their yonth, perhaps still
more largely on their faculty of in*
Tention. What a happy dispensa-
tion it is in the case of men intensely
wicked and worldly, that in yonth,
when they might do infinite evil,
they have not the necessary know-
ledge of the world and of human
nainre to enahle them to do so; and
when they have a store of wicked
experience, the powers have fled
which woT^d have enabled them to
tnm it to fall account 1 At this
moment I remember a hoary old
yillain talking ribaldry with his
middle-aged son, both of them
dreesed to an inch of their lives,
asnd believing that the fashion of
this world necessarily endures for
ever. Granting the tyranny and
perpetuity of fashion— for in the
worst times of the French rerolu-
tion fashion still maintained its
sway, and the operas and theatres
were never closed — (till each indivi-
dual tyrant of fashion has only his
day, and often the day is a Tery
brief one. Nothing is more be-
ooming than gray hairs worn gal-
lantly and well, and when accom-
panied with sense and worth they
have often borne avray a lovely
bride, rich and accomplished, too,
from some silly, gilded youth. I have
known marriages between January
and May, where May has been really
very fond of January. After all,
the aged Adonis generally pairs off
with Pome antiquated Venus; the
juvenilities on each side are elimi-
nated as being common to both
and of no real import, and the
settlement is arranged by the law-
yers and by family friends on a
sound commercial basis.
It is very easy for those who
devote themselres to the study of
satirical composition, and cultivate
a sneer for things in general, to be
witty on the frivolities of the Park.
And this is the worst of satire, that
it is bound to be pungent, and can-
not pauFe to be aiscriminating and
{'U6i Even the most sombre re-
igionist begins to understand that
he may uf e the world, without try-
ing to drain its sparkling cup to the
dregs. Hyde Park is oertamly not
abandoned to idlesK. The moet
practical men recognise its import-
ance and utility to them. There
are good wives who go down to the
dubs or the Houses in their car-
riages to insist that their lords shall
take a drive before they dine and
go back to the House. And when
you see saddle-horses led up and
down in Palace Yard, the rider will
most probably take a gallop before
he comes back to be squeezed and
heated by the House of Commons or
be blown away by the over-ventila-
tion of the House of Lords. A man
begins to understand that it is part of
his regular vocation in life to move
about in the Park. And all mea da
80, especially when the sun's beama
are tempered and when the cooling
evening breeze is springing up. Uhe
merchant from the City, the la^er
from his office, the clergyman Vom
his parish, the governess in her
spare hours, the artist in his love of
nature and human nature, all feel
that the fresh air and the fresh
faces will do them good. There
was a literary man who took a
Brompton apartment with the back
windows fronting the Park. Hither
he used to resort, giving way to the
fascination which led him, hour after
hour, to study the appearances pre-
sented to him. The subject is, indeed^
T«ry interesting and attractive, inr
eluding especially the very popular
study of flirtation in all its forms
and branches. If you really wanjk
to see the Bow you must go very
early in the afbomoon. Early in the
afteinooQ the equestrians ride for
ezerdse; later, they ride much in
the same way as they promenade.
The Prince for a long time used to
ride early in the afternoon, if only
to save himself the trouble of that
incessant salutation which must be
a serious drawback on H. B. H.'s
enjoyment of his leisure. Or, again,,
late in the evening, it is interesting
to note the gradual thinning of the
Park and its new occupants come
upon the scene. The habUaS of
Botten Bow is able, with nice gra-
dations, to poiot out how the cold
winds and rains of the early summer
have night after night emptied the
Park at an earlier hour, oj^ how a
f&te at the Horticultural, or a gala
AftemooM in * (he Park'
108
at the CiTBtal Palace, has seDsibly
thinned the attendance. As the
affluent go home to dress and dine,
the 6008 and daughters of penury
vho have shunned the broad sun-
light creep out into the vacant
spaces. The last carriages of those
who are going home from the pro-
menade meet the first carriages of
those who are going out to dine.
Only two nights ago I met the
carriage of Mr. Disraeli and his
wife. I promise you tbe Yisoountess
Beaconsfieldlooked magnificent Cu-
riously enough they were diuing at
the same honse, where, not many
years ago, Mr. Disraeli dined with
S)or George Hadsoo. When Mr.
udson had a dinner given to him
lately, it is said that he was much
afilBcted, and told his hosts that its
cost would have kept him and his
for a month.
The overwhelming importance of
the Parks to London is w^i brought
out by that shrewd observer, Crabb
Bobioson, in his recent Diary. Un-
der February 15, 1818, he writes:
'At two I took a ride into the
Begent's Part^ which I had never
seen before. When the trees are
grown this will be really an orna-
ment to the capital ; and not a mere
ornament bat a healthful appendaga
The Highgate and ilampstead Hill
is a beautiful object ; and within the
Park the artificial water, the cir-
cular belt or coppice, the few scat-
tered bridges, &o., are objects of
taste. I really think this enclosure,
with the new street leading to it
from Carlton Hoase [Regent Street]
will give a sort of glory to the Re-
gent's government, greater than the
victories of Trafalgar and Waterloo,
glorious as these are.' Here, again,
almost at haphazard, is a quotation
from an American writer : ' So vast
is the extent of these successiye
ranges, and so much of England
can one fijid, as it were, in the midst
of London. Ob, wise and prudent
John Bull, to ennoble thy metro-
polis with such spacious country
walks, and to sweeten it so much
with country air! Truly these
lungs of London are vital to such
a Babylon, and there is no beauty
to be compared to them in any dty
I have ever seen. I do not think
the English are half proud enough
of their capital, conceited as they
are about so many things besides.
Here you see the best of horse-flesh,
laden with the "porcelain clay" of
human flesh. Anl how darling^
the ladies go by, and how ambi-
tiously their favoured companions
display their good fortune in at-
tending them. Here a gay creature
rides independbutly enongh with
her footman at a respectful distance.
She is an heiress, and the young
gallants she scarce deigns to notice
are dying for love of her and her
guineas.'
Bat, after all, is there 'anything
more enjoyable iu its way than
Kensington Gardens? You axe
not so neglig6 as in St James's, but
it is comparative undress com-
pared with Hyde Park. Truly
there are days, and even in the
height of the season too, when you
may lie down on the grass and
gaze into the depth of sky, listening
to the murmnroos breeze, and thai
&r-off hum which might be a sound
of distant waves, and fancy yourself
in Ravenna's immemorial wood*
Ah, what thrilling scenes have coma
off beneath these horse-chestnuts
with their thick leaves and pyra-
midal blossoms I And if only those
whispers were audible, if only those
tell-tale leaves might murmur their
confessions, what narratives might
these snpply of the idyllic side of
London life, sufficient to content a
legion of romancists! It is a fine
thing for Orlando to havo a gallop
by the side of his pretty ladylove
down the Row, bat Orlando knows
very well that if he could only draw
her arm through his and lead her
down some vista in those gardens,
it would be well for him. Oh, yield-
ing hands and eyes! oh, mantling
blushes and eloquent tears I oh, soft
glances and all fine tremor of
speech, in those gardens more than
in Armina's own are ye abounding.
There is an intense human interest
about Kensington Gardens which
grows more and more, as one takes
one*s walks abroad and the scene
becomes intelligible. See that slim
maid, demurely reading beneath
yonder trees, those old trees which
artista love in the morning to oome
104
Aftemotm in 'the Park:
and sketch. She glances more than
once at her watch, and then sad-
denlj with Btirpriflo she greets a
lounger. I thought at the very
first that her enrprise was an affeo-
tation ; and as I see how she disap-
pears with him through that orer-
arching leafy arcade my surmise
becomes oonvietioo. As for the
nursery maids who let their little
charges loiter or riot about, or even
the sedater gOTernesses with their
more serious aimoj who will let gen*
ilemanly little b(»ys and girls grow
yery oonversational, while they are
Tery conversational themselves with
tall whiskered cousins or casual ao-
ouaintance, why, I can only say,
that for Uie sake of the most ma-
ternal hearts beating in this great
metropolis, I am truly rejoiced to
think that there are no carriage
roads through the Qaidens, and the
little ones can hardly come to any
Tery serious mischief.
Are you now inclined, my friends,
for a little— and I promise you it
shall really be a little— discourse
ooncerning those Parks, that shall
have a slight dash of literature and
history about it? First of all, let
me tell you, that in a park you
ought always to feel loyal, since for
our parks we are indebted to our
kings. The Teiy definition of a
Sdc jft— I assuK you I am quoting
e great Blaokstone himself— 'an
enclosed chase, extending only orer
a man's own grounds,' and the Parks
have been the grounds of the sove-
reign's own self. It is true of more
than one British Cffisar —
* If oreoTcr be bath left yoa aU bla walki,
. His prlyate arboun and new-pUntad erduuda
On'ibb tide Tlbnr ; be bath left them yon
And to yoar hcln for ever; oommon pleasures
To" walk abrosd and reereale younelTcs.'
Once in the fiur distant time they were
genuine parks with beasts of chase.
We are told that the City corpora-
tion bunted the hare at the head of
the conduit, where Ck)nduit Street
now stands, and killed the fox at
the end • of St Giles's. St James's
Park was especially the courtier's
Sirk, a very drawing-room of parks,
ow spleodidlj over the goigeous
scene floats the royal banner of
SnglaDd, atihefootof OoDStitntioii
Hill, which has been truly called
the most chastely-goi^eous banner
in the world! If you look at the
dramatistsof the Restoration yon find
frequent notices of the Park, which
are totally wanting in the Eliza-
be than diumatiBts, when it was only
a nursery for deer. Cromwell had
shut up Spring Qardens, but Charles
IL gave us St James's Park. In
the next century the Duke of Buck-
ingham, desorilnng his house, says :
* The avenues to this house are along
St James's Park, through rows of
goodly elms on one hand and
nourishing limes on the other; that
for coaches, this for walking, with
the MaU lying between them.' It
was in the Park that the grave
Evelyn saw and heard his {gracious
sovereign 'hold a very fiuniliar dis-
course with Mrs. Nellie, as they
called an impudent comedian, she
looking out of her garden on a ter-
race at the top of the wall' Hess
Pepys saw ' above all Bfrs. Stuart ia
this dress with her hat oockedand
a red plume, with her sweet ^e,
little Boman nose, and excellent
taiUe, the greatest beauty I ever
saw, I think, in my Ufa' Or take a
play from Etheridge.
' Enter SiB FoPLiva FLuma and
his equipage,
* Sir Fop. Hey! bid the coachman
send home four of his hones and
bring the coach to Whitehall; I'll
walk over the Park. Madam, the
honour of kissing your &ir hands is
a happiness I missed this afternoon
at my lady Townly's.
* Leo. You were very obliging. Sir
Foplmg, the last time I saw you
there.
' Sir Fop. The preference was due
to your wit and beauty. Madam,
your servant There never was so
sweet an evening.
' Bdlinda, It has drawn all the
rabble of the town hither.
' Sir Fop. 'lis pity there is not an
order made that none but the heau
monde should walk here.'
In Swift's ' Journal to Stella' we
have much mention of the Park:
'to bring himself down,' he says,
that being the fiantmg system of
that day, he used to start on his
106
AJUraocm In ^ Ae Park!
walk about sunset Horace Wal-
pole sajs : ' My ]ady Coventry aod
niece Waldegrave have been mobbed
in tbe Pork. I am sorry the people
of England take all their hberty out
in insulting pretty women/ He
elsewhere tells us with what state
he and the ladies went. ' We sailed
up the Mall with all our colours
flying/ We do not hear much of
the Green Park. It was for a long
time most likely a village green,
where the citizens would enjoy
rough games, and in the early morn-
ing duellists would resort hither to
heal their wounded honour.
Originally Kensington Gardens
and Hyde Park were all on& Ad-
dison speaks of it in the ' Spectator/
and it is only since the time of
George 11. that a severance has
been made. Hyde Park has its own
place in literature and in history.
There was a certain first of May
when both Pepys and Evelyn were in-
terested in Hyde Park. Pepys says :
' I went to Hide Park to take the air^
where was his Majosty and an innu-
merable appearance of gallants and
rich coaches, being now a time of
universal festivity and joy.' It was
always a great place for reviews.
They are held there still, and the
Volunteers have often given great
liveliness to the Park on Saturday.
Here Cromwell used to review his
terrible Ironsides. It was Queen
Caroline who threw a set of ponds
into one sheet of water, and as the
water-line was not a direct one, it
was called the Serpentine. The
fosse and low wall was then a new
invention; 'an attempt deemed so
astonishing that the common people
called them ha-has to express their
surprise at finding a sudden and
unperceived check to their walk.'
It is eaid that a nobleman who had
a house abutting on the Park en-
graved the words
"TiB my delight to be
In tbe town and the oonntrce.'
Antiquaries may find out count-
less points of interest, and may be
able to identify special localities.
Once there were chalybeate springs
in a sweet glen, now spoilt by the
canker of ugly barracks. It was
on the cards that the Park might
have been adorned with a rotunda
instead. Most of the literary asso-
ciations cluster around Kensington
Gardens, concerning which Lttgh
Hunt has written much pleasant
gossip in his 'Old Court oiiburb.'
A considerable amount of history
and an infinite amount of gossip
belong to Kensington Palace, now
assigned to the Duchess of Inver-
ness, the morganatic wife of the
Duke of Sussex; gossip about
George IL and his wife, about
Lord Hervey, the queen and her
maids of honour, the bad beautiful
Duchess of Kingston, the charming
Sarah Lennox, Selwyn, March, Bubb
Doddington, and that crew, whom
Mr. Thackeray delighted to repro-
duce. There is at least one pure scene
dear to memory serene, that the
Princess Victoria was born and bred
here, and at five o*clock one morning
aroused from her slumliers, to come
down with dishevelled hair to hear
from great nobles that she was now
the queen of the broad empire on
which the morning and the evening
star ever shines.
I am very fond of lounging
through the Park at an hour when
it is well-nigh all deserted. I am
not, indeed, altogether solitary in
my ways and modes. There are
certain carriages which roll into
tbe Park almost at the time when
all other carriages have left or are
leaving. In my solitariness I
feel a sympathy with those who
desire the coolness and freshness
when they are most perfect I have
an interest, too, in the very roughs
that lounge about the parks. I
think them far superior to the
roughs that lounge about the
streets. Here is an athletic scamp.
I admire his easy litheness and
excellent proportion of limb. He
is a scamp and a tramp, but then he
is such on an intelligible rosthetical
principle. He has flong himself
down, in the pure physical enjoy-
ment of life, just as a Neapolitan
will bask in the sunshine, to enjoy
tbe turf and the atmosphera In
his splendid animal life he will
sleep for hours, unfearing draught
or miasma, untroubled with ache or
pain, obtaining something of a com-
From Bemenham Liand to Henley,
107
pensaiion for his negative troubles
and privations. If you oome to
talk to the vagrant sons and
daughters of poverty loitering till
the Park is cleared, or even sleep-
ing here the livelong night, you
vould obtain a elear view of that
night side which is never far from
the bright side of London. I am
not sure that I might not commend
such a beat as this to some philan-
thropist for his special attention.
The nandsome, wilful boy who has
run away from home or school ; the
thoughtless clerk or shopman out
of work; the poor usher, whose
little store has been spent in ill-
ness; the servant-girl who has
been so long without a place, and
is now hovering on the borders of
penury and the extreme limit .of
temptation; they are by no means
rare, with their easily- yielded se-
eretB, doubtless with some amount
of impostore, and always, when the
truth comes to be known, with
large blame attachable to their
faults or weakness, but still with
a very large percentage where some
sympathy or substantial help will
be of the greatest possible assist-
ance. As one knocks about liondon,
one accumulates souvenirs of -all
kinds— some perhaps that will not
voir well bear much inspection;
and it may be a pleasing reflection
that you went to some little ex-
penditure of time or coiu to save
some lad from the hulks or some
girl from ruin.
FEOM EEMENHAM ISLAND TO HENLEY.
THE racing over that long mile
and a quarter between the
Temple on Bemenham Island and
Henl^ old bridge, the scene of
some of the ' quickest things ' ever
rowed by amateur oarsmen, l<»t
little pntiige this year. Most of its
ancient traditions were ftilly borne
out, and the thirty-first meeting
took place in weather quite as rough,
as cold, and as wet, as those who
have 'assisted' any time within
the last quarter of a century could
have prognosticated. The first day
opened gloomily, and brought us
a March wind which chilled the air
until the sun dispersed the clouds,
spread its tempering influence, and
xnade even hanging about the tow-
path quite pleasant Thursday, how-
ever, was an unmistakable up-river
day. From an early hour in the
mwning rain had follen, and con-
tinued without cessation to literally
pour down till near the time fixed
for racing to commence. Then
luckily the clouds broke, and for a
couple of hours or so there was a
lull Tbe Lion Garden, however,
was soon deserted again by the few
ladies who had been daring enough
to attempt to brave the elements,
a brace of sharp showers driving
them back to the Grand Stand,
where they remained during the
remainder of the day, although
it was afterwards fine and warm.
The attendance did not reach any-
thing like that of the previous year;
but the ' pampers out,' and those
who made a night of it on the river,
appeared quite as numerous. We
paid a visit of inspection on the
second morning of tbe regatta as
far as Hurley Lock, and found can-
vas spread in all directions, the
occupants here and there raising a
comer and gazing moodily at us
as at intruders on their solitude.
Peace be to them! We had no
thought of disturbing their reflec-
tions, which must have been of the
most cheerless description after a
night of damp and dew followed, as
dawn appeared, by a severe soaking
of many hours' duration. There is
no greater discomfort than bivou-
acking in wet weather: ask those
who spent the first night in tents
on Wimbledon last year for their
opinion. Many were literally
washed out of their beds, and had
to apply many a time and oft to
the black dndeen and the wicker
cask for consolation. The heavy
rain had also the effect of flooding
the tow-path with pools of water,
and after the trampling of hundreds
of feet of reducing it to the con-
sistency of dough, so that the ' go-
108
Fttm Bemmham Idcmd to Heideif.
iDg' was not qtiite so agrreeable
as it might have been. Ere the
laoing was over most of the mnnen
were plentifally bespattered from
their faces downward, while their
nether garments were quite lost in
mnd, making the wearers altogether
hsjrdly recognisable. But enough
of this: much requires to be said
of the sport and the space at our
disposal IS limited.
A strong breeze from N.N.W. on
Wednesday made choice of stations
a matter of the utmost importance,
and early in the day the Berkshire
or inside berth was altogether
out of &your, the Buckinghamshire
side being in great request, not-
withstanding that on ordinary oc-
casions it is considered adveree in
a great degree to the chances of
any crew unlucky enough to draw
it First on the programme stood
the opening heat of the Grand
Challenge Eights, for which the
Oifoid Etonians, the Eton Oollege
crew, and the Cambridge Lady
Margaret, came to the poet, to de-
cide which should do battle against
the London Club, who last year
defeated the Eton 'boys' in the
final struggle by half a clear length,
after making the ftstest recorded
time, viz., 7 niin. 20 sec. Kearly
half an hour was spent before the
Eights could drop to their places,
the wind forcing their heads to
leeward as often as they got into
position. At last, when something
uke straight, the^ were started, the
school crew, wiUi an extremely
rapid stroke, gradually assuming
the lead, and off Bem^iham Earm
they were nearly clear. After this
the Etonians, who had been shel-
tered all the way by the foliage on
the Buckinghamshire shore, began
to creep up, and weight also telling
in their favour, th^ soon managed
to get on even terms, then to draw
slowly away, until at Poplar Point
th^ were half a length to the good.
Eton, however, had now all the
best of the water, and with a migh^
effort tbev visibly reduced their
opponents lead; but the Oxford
crew, all tried oarsmen, shot away
again when called on, and finished
three-quarters of a length in ad-
vance, after a splitting race all the
way. Lady MflTgaxet we have not
mentioned. Suffice it to say thsy
were never ' in the hunt'
Next followed the trial heat of
the Wyfold, in which the Oscilla-
tors, a London Club crew, and
Stames came together. The first-
named gained an easy victory, and
the contest, if contest it can be
called, served to point out the three
defective places in the London
Eight, of which so much had been
said. Next came the first heat of
the Diamond Sculls, and produced
the race of the meeting. The ul-
timate result had been looked on
as a ' foregone conclusion' for Long
of the London Club, the perform-
ances of Crofks, of Kingston, who
bad won the sculls in 1867, and of
Tarborough, an Oxonian, and the
pretensions of Calvert and Bun-
bury, two Eton boys, being alike ig-
nored. Long had been tned in the
previous week; and notwithstand-
mg whispers that he was scarcely so
fast as duriog last seascm, his par-
tisans never lost confidence or
ceased laying odds on him. The
Kmgston man had the benefit of
the station, and coming away at a
criusking pace, led off Fawley Court
by a clear length. Long being ap-
parently demoralised, as he was
palpably sculling a slow stroke,
and, worse than that, a short stroke.
His ' coach,' however, who rode up
the bank succeeded at length in
making his admonitions heard, and
lying down to the work before him
in something like his old sigrle.
Long b^;an to hold his own then,
notwithstanding that he was re-
ceiving an ugly wash from Crofts,
to creep up. From this point a
really memorable struggle took
Slace. Inch by inch the Londoner
rew on his opponent^ and stoutly
contested though the race was,
neither gave signs of flagging.
After making the crossing, a foul
seemed almost imminent, but Jost
prior to rounding the Point, Long
used his right-hand scull strongly,
and prohably lost himself the race
by going outside Crofts, instead of
hugging the shore as he had evi-
dently previously iotended. Every
stroke brought them nearer the
goal, and slowly but surely Long
Frcm Bemmtiham Hand to Hmdeg.
109
deoraased the gap. Crofts, how-
ever, rowed in ihoionghly plaoky
style to the end ; and although with-
in twenty yards after passing the
judge, Long had got his boat's
nose in front, he was behind at the
actual mooKent of passing the poet,
and lost a magnificent race by a
bare five feet, the finish reminding
ns of the dead heat in 1S63 between
W. B. Woodgate and E. D. Brick-
wood.
. Early in the race it seemed as if
Long was quite 'taken aback' by
the rapidity and power of Crofts'
sonlling, but from the half distance
he amply atoned for any short-
comings in this respect; and though
apparently incapable of a sport at
any point, his lengthy stroke told
in the end, and it was his misfortune
rather than his fanlt that the few
feet which separated the boats at
the finish should have been against
him.
Yarborough had almost a walk
over against McClintock-Bunhury
in the second heat of the Senile ; and
the trial heat of the Town Cup, a
local race, ended in the victory of
the Eton Excelsior crew; whilst in
the first heat of the Ladies' Plate,
Lady Margaret had no difficulty in
disposing of Radley. Then followed
a heat of the Stewards' Fours, which
decided who should meet the London
Club, the holders, on the second day.
Three crews contended, the Oxford
Badleians, the old Etonians, and a
Kingston boat On paper the
Etonian crew seemed to have the
best of i^, but as they were all stale
after their hard race against Eton
school for the Grand Challenge
Eights, the 'Bads' were slightly
the favourites in some quarters.
They got a bad start notwithstand-
ing the advantages of the Berks
station, for the wind had now gone
down, and off Bemenham Bam
were nearly a length to the bad, the
Etonians being in the van with
Kingston near the centre, second.
After rowing half way the latter
had dropped astern, and the Bad-
leians going up to the leaders at
every stroke managed to head them
at Poplar Point The previous
heavy .work done by the Etonians
now evidbntly told^ and after being
once 'collared' they were soon
shaken off, the Badleians shooting
forward and passing the judge a
clear length ahead. In the race
for the Qoblets two pairs only started,
viz. Long and Stout on behalf of
London, and Calvert and Bunbury
for Eton. This was one of the
'real morals' of the meeting, and
without being extended, the Lon-
doners, although their opponents
got nearly clear at one time, won by
upwards of three lengths. This
ended the opening day's sport
On Thursday the deciding heat of
the Grand Challenge was first set
for decision. Prior to the regatta
London had been slight favourites;
but the mediocre performance in
the Wyfold of three of their men
set off against the excellent rowing
of the old Etonians, and the £Mt
that the latter had drawn the Berks
station, caused speculation to veer
round, and before the start odds
were laid on theuL The Londonem
came out with the lead, and
drew slowly away until off Fawley
Court they were two-thirds of a
length in advance. Here the
Etonians began to hold their own,
then to gain a trifle, and little by
little to decrease the gap, until at
the second barrier from the finish
the boats had become strictly leveL
The Londoners, however, were now
clearly trapped, and all Gulston's
gallant rowing could not save them,
as the slack water under the Berk-
shire shore gave Woodhowe a great
advantage, and he rapidly went
away and won by a clear length in
7 min. 30 sea The Wyfold final pro-
duced an excellent race from ei.d to
end between those old rivals the
Oscillators and the Kingston. Pass^
iog Fawley Court, the Ot<ciIlators
had drawn clear, and might have
taken their opponents' water, but
this they refrained from doing ; and
the Kingston having the best of the
course all the way managed, when
served by the station, to decrease
their opponents' lead materially.
They could never, however, quite
get up, and were beaten by a trifle
over half a length, after a tight
atruggia Next came the final heat
of the Ladies' Challenge Plate. • The
Eton /boys/ who were the holdeES,
110
Frcm Bemeniam hUmi to HeHle§.
had all the Fympathy of spectators^
and the cheeriog was especially en-
thusiastic as they rowed away at the
start, were clear early in the race, and
won easily from the Lady Margaret
by nearly half a dozen lengths. Eton
Z^celsior were indulged with a mild
canter against the Henley crew in the
final heat of the Town Gup, and the
race for a Presentation Prize open to
fours without cozwains, the steering
being managed on the American
principle, proved a rather hollow
affair after passing Fawley Court,
the old Radleians winning easily by
a couple of lengths from the Osdl-
lators. In the deciding heat of the
Diamond Sculls, Tarborough op-
posed Crofts; and although the
former was known to be a ' sticker/
his chance was hardly fancied. He
steered badly after going a quarter
of a mile, and was defeated with
ease by three or fonr lengths. In
the Visitors' Challenge Fours, Lady
Margaret, stroked by Goldie, had
again to succumb, this time to tho
University College, Oxford, crew,
in which TInn6 made his only ap-
pearance during the two days.
University came right through, and
won by three lengths. The Stewards'
Fours brought another certainty for
the London Club, whose rowing
was in perfect unison and a treat
to witness, the Badleian crew being
a couple of lengths in the rear at
the finish.
Of the eight open events pro-
ducing races, it will be thus seen
tliat the London Club won two out
of the five for which they com*
peted. Before the regatta their
success in the Sculls, Qoblets, and
the Steward^', had been 'put about'
as certain; while it seemed quite
probab?e they would continue to
hold the Grand Challenge, and
perhaps win the Wyfold. They
began badly by being nowhere in
the latter; and the succeeding
defeat of Long for the Sculls ren-
dered their partisans in a not very
pleasant frame of mind. They
had, however, ample reason for en-
trusting Long with their confi-
dence; and had the race to be
rowed again, we should look to him
to prodoce the victor, althongh
Crofts is both fast and a 'stayer.'
Probably the real reason of Long's
defeat is that he was overworked.
Had he contented himself with
training for two or even for three
races he must have come to the post
in far different condition. But it is
too much to expect of natnretbat it
will not feel strained by the large
amount of rowing and sculling
entailed by practice in an eight, a
four, a pair, and a sculling boat
Several others of the London men also
looked pale and worn ; and, indeed,
had the weak points in the Eight been
looked to earlier, we should have
anticipated a different result from
that of the Grand Challenga In
the Stewards' and the Goblets, they
proved immeasurably superior to
their opponents ; but the foar who
represented the club in the Wyfold
had not the slightest pretensions.
The victory of the Oxford Etonians
over the holdera in the Grand
Challenge was hailed with great
glee by University men; and to
some extent atoned for their defeat
in the trial heat of the Stewards'
by the old Badleian crew on the
previous day. The Londonera
showed the latter bat little con-
sideration in the final ; and, as we
saw on the following Saturday at
Pangbonme, clearly proved them-
selves ponnds better than the
Etonian crew into the bargain.
Lady Margaret deserve every
credit for entering; and it is a great
pity they were not successful, in
one race at least. Eton School
sent, as they always do send, a fine
orew to the post; and although
the 'boys' suffered defeat in the
Grand Challenge they were re-
warded with victory in the race for
the Ladies' Plate. The final heat of
the Wyfoid between those ancient
enemies the Of cillaton and Kingston
was one of the best races of the meet-
ing, and, although the former won,
both crews showed the utmost game-
ness. The Oscillators, however, had
in turn to submit to the superior
prowess of the Old Radleians in the
race without coxswains ; while, for the
Visitora' Challenge Cap, Univeraity
Coll. (Oxford) literally walked away
from the Cambiidge crew, as did
Eton Excelsior from all opponents
in the Town Cap.
IVcm Bemenham Island to Henley.
Ill
MesnB. G60. Morrigon and A. P.
Lonsdale had the screw steam-
yacht Ariel, belonging to Mr. BIyth,
of Maidenhead, placed at their dis-
poeal, thus dispensing with the
necessity of eight- oared cnttera.
The watermen who have been pre-
Tioufily employed were naturally in
bgh dudgeon at losing the couple
of daj s' work ; but they, like other
people, mu£t learn sooner or later
that improyement will assume its
sway.
The amusements were yaried on
the second day by the 'ducking'
of a Welsher, who had with native
impudence taken up his stand behind
the Lion Gaiden. He made him-
self particularly offensive from the
first ; and as the racing progressed,
and a little money was entrusted
to him on a contingency, gradually
became more unruly, refusing at
length to refund even the amount
staked by a winner. Unwary man,
what had he done? Verily a
bomet*s ne^t was gathering about
his ears. The law, in the form of
a rural ' blue,' was appealed to, but
he declared himself utterly power-
less; and there was apparently nought
left for the backer but to ' grin and
bear it.' On the bridge, howeyer,
a solemn conclave was held the
same night, and, after ' sweet con-
verse/ a little plan was laid, in the
event of the reappearance of the
defaulter on the morrow. He ui^
blushingly came again, and others
beside him, and they partook
heartily of strong waters and smoked
bad cigars, and rudely chaffed the
personal appearance of the men
who leaned half out of the neigh-
bouring windows. Better had they
gone awf^ while there was yet
time; better still had they never
come ! The Nemesis was at hand.
A mild-looking undergraduate took
long odds to a ' skiv,' so long, in fact,
that it was almost certain he would
not be paid if he won, and went
away. His star was in the ascend-
ant ; the crow of his choice came in
first, and he applied for his win-
nings. Of course he did not get
them, but in lieu was met with
horrible imprecations, and told that
the firm he had wagered with
was bankrupt. In vain he expos-
tulated, and mentioned that it
would be better for all parties con-
cerned that he should be paid.
But no; his debtor was obdurate;
the money was not forthcQming.
Then the mild graduate faced his
friends, and gave the signal. A
dozen strong arms seized the
Welsher, and he was boroe in the
direction of the towing-pump. That
venerable institution, however, re-
fusing its offices, the proximity of
the Thames was suggested, and
' To the bankl' was the ctj. The
yokels, who had gathered m large
numbers, enjoyed the fun amazingly,
and fot a trifling douceur dropped
the offended off the embankment,
and afterwards put him well under
the broad waters of Father Thames
three or four times. Then he stood
up and wept passionate tears, and
was in due time left to go on his
way a wetter, and, we trust, a wiser
man. Probably after this lesson
we shall hear of no more ' Welshers
at Henley.' It were better if the
Government could deal with such
rascals; but, as it refuses, it is hard
indeed if the public are to be
robbed and the thieves escape in
the open day entirely scot-free.
H. B.
112
SKETCHES IN THE HOUSE OF COMMONS.
HO. L — THB TBORT TBSASDBX BX2R3S.
I ENOW of hardly any more plea-
sant and intellectaal eojoyment
than attending the dehates in the
House of Commons, when the Wi^*
ingisfcoodand partyspurit runs high.
I woald exhort those who aie tired of
the Opera, and jet want some intel-
lectaal excitement, to finequent the
House. It is much livelier than the
Boyal Institution, and much more
interesting than those monotonous
law-courts, which hare only an oc-
casional interest^ and for which there
now seems a steady distaste. There
are different ways of getting into the
House. Of course the royal way is to
turn aside* half-way up the hall, and
go through the door under the tall
Uunp, reeerred for memhers and
guarded by a policeman. The sim-
plest and most obvious course for
outsiders is to get a member's order.
But after you have got your order,
you don't know what your order
may get you ; perhaps the chance of
ballotmg for your place amongst
the hundreds who cannot be ad-
mitted. You wish you were a West-
minster boy, with a prescriptive
right to a place,— which has proved
such a stimulus to many of them.
Perhaps you get in under the
Speaker's private gallery. Better
still : perhaps the Speaker may be
influenced by some member to put
you in 'under the gallery/ where
you are on the floor of the Houfe,
and as well off as if you were a
member. If you happen to belong
to the press, yon are much better off
than most members. The daily
papers are treated most liberally
with little square cards of admis-
sion ; one for the reporter, one for
the editor, and one for the leader-
writer; not to mention that they
have a snug room all to themselves,
in the rear. The ladif s are worse
treated of all behind their grating.
But although theHouse chivalrously
cheers every proposition to remove
it, there is a dexterous count out
when the question comes forward in
a practical shape. A lady once vin-
dictively took a baby behind that
objectionable grating, whose shrill
scream might remind the House of
more than one honourable member.
The true remedy would be that a
' person' like Miss Becker, or Miss
Sneddon, or Dr. Mary Walker should
have a seat in the House, to
avenge the wrongs of the trampled
sex. Or suppose we displaced the
ftont Tressui^ Bench, and allowed
two dozen ladies to have seats in the
House, just as some two doEen
bishops represent in the Lords the
vast body of the clergy. By the
way, the bishops, in their billowy
lawn, in their quarter of the House
of Lords, attacked so ruthlessly by
Badicals on the Irish Church Bill,
reminded me very much of Land-
seer's picture in the Academy this
year, the 'Swannery invaded by
Sea Eagles.'
The House of Commons has more
and more been becoming a place of
fashionable recreation — for those
who can get there ; and one rather re-
grets the old simple system of a half-
crown to the doorkeeper. A friend
of mine strolled to the House of
Commons one evening, and, finding
no doorkeeper at the door, in the
calmest manner possible he walked
into the body of the room and took
his seat among the membera. I
believe he stayed there undetected
for an hour. He had not even the
countryman's poor excuse of igno-
rance. It was a bit of bravado, a
repetition of which might be at-
tended with very awkward conse-
quences. It is to be hoped, for the
Mike both of members and of vi-
sitors, that the plan fur a new House,
by taking in a quadrangle, may be
carried out. Beyond the sacted
seats reserved for the ministers, and
other leaders, there is, on a field-
night, almost as great a cmsh to
^ into the House it»elf as to get
m, or under the gallery. A very
good thing is told of a man named
Fergupson, in the great Reform de-
bates of 183a. All members were
then naturally anxious to get good
places, which could then only be
Sketches in the Eouee of (hmmom.
118
done by labelling iheir places with
their names. Fergnsson went down
one' morning so early as seven
o'clock, thus to secure bis place,
that being the boor at which the
servants cleaned the place. To bis
great surprise, he found that the
debate, which be bad left a little
after midnight, was still going on,
the feeling of tiie House haviog be-
oome general in favour of a division.
Fergusson was just in time to vote,
and obtained immense credit with
bis oonstituentB for having sat
through the live-long night in his
zeal for the cause of Reform. How-
ever, a grand field-night at the
Commons is very well worth sitting
through. It is not, indeed, so good
as the Lords. The scene is infinitely
less imposing, and the debating is
not so good by any means. When
the Lords have a grand debate they
do it grandly. They will not tole-
rate any second-rate speaking, ex-
cept when listenmg to some man
who has large claims to be heard ;
whereas, in the other House there
is a great deal of twaddle tailed
in the dinner hour, and at all
times really good speaking in the
Commons forms tne exception,
while in the Lords it rather forms
the rule. As for the Commons, they
rush in and out of the House like
rabbits in a warren, if I may quote an
irreverent similitude, and at dinner
time, if a man persists in addressing
them, the House has been likened
to a great hungry beast, that will
ftet^ and roar, and threaten to de-
vour. Then what an unseemly m^
comes off at the last I Plato used
to say that the Sophists studied the
humours of society as one might
study the temper of a wild beast
And yet the House is very good-
humoured and manageable. If a
man gives a significant glance at
the clock, a silent contract is made,
and it is understood that the mem-
ber has really something to say and
will not be long in saying it The
great hero of the day just now is, of
course, Mr. Gladstona One ought
to see him on such an occasion as
when he came down the other night
from a party at Marlborongh House
in breeches and black siik stockings
and shoes with buckles. Only the
VOL. XVL— NO. XCII.
powdered hair and the pigtail were
wanting, and the old days of George
III. would seem revived, and ' the
People's William ' might be a living
resemblance of that great statesman
whom his friends called ' Sweet
William/ and his enemies ' the bot-
tomless Pitt'
There can be no doubt but in the
present day the study of the Debates
m Parliament gives the most valu-
able of all the literature that deals
with the wide domain of politics.
The newspaper press, which claims,
with some show of reason, to be the
Fourth Estate, cazmot, to our mind,
for a momeot compiure with the
parliamentary discussion on which
newspaper discussion is substan-
tially based. I imagine that news-
paper articles are deteriorating, and
parliamentary speeches are improv-
ing. A newspaper article is good
for the constituency of that news-
paper alone; whereas a parliamen-
ta^ speech holds good for all news-
papers and all constituencies. Asa
matter of fetct, writing is a more
careful and deliberate process than
speaking; but somehow tiie two
oystems have changed places. We
have now an immense quantity of
prepared speeches and of extempo-
rary writing. The parliamentarv
rker knows that he has to ad-
s an illimitable audience, under
all the responsibility that attaches
to the fullest publicity that attends
his words and votes. The conse-
quence is that the speaker is under
every inducement to do Mb best;
and a literary article is rarely com-
posed with that amount of study,
and thought, and effort which is
frequently lavished upon the prepa-
ration of a parliamentary speech.
When you nave read through a
parliamentary debate, and then turn
to the leading article on it, you per-
ceive at once that you have passed
from an exhaustive discussion to a
thin and superficial comment on it
No one speaker has brought out
the whole truth, but the whole
truth has been brought out in
the course of the debate. In
making a comparison between the
debating power of the two Houses,
I was speaking of the absolute and
not the relative proportion. The
I
114
Sketches in the Hou$e of Ckmmom,
Lords hardly manage an adjonnied
debate more than onoe in a year or
two. But the stream of debate in
the Lower House is fall and conti-
nuous; they have more speakers
and more speeches, and the absolute
amount of very good parley im-
meajBurably transcends, as a whole
and in amount, that talked in the
Lords. In a4justing the ooostitu-
tional question of the relations be-
tween the Houses, which has be^
BO much discussed this season, it
ought to be recollected— an argu-
ment which I have not seen dis-
cussed—that the Peers, although
they are supposed to hold aloof from
politics, did virtually exert their
I)oliticaI strength in the late elec-
tions in the persons of their friends
and relatives,' and so they were vir-
tually included in the general mi-
nority.
Mr. Gladstone has certainly aged
during the last few years. His hair
is whiter, his countenance more
wan. But he is in office; and to
him office is happiness. Since he
has been Premier his temper has
been particularly good. He has
only been in a passion once. He
showed, for instance, to great ad-
vantage when Colonel North rose to
put a badgering question about Mr.
jBright in the Commons, the same
night that Lord Gainis made a
badgering speech on the same sub-
ject in the Lords. Lord Gran-
ville knows the House of Lords
thoroughly, and can play upon its
every chord as upon a musical in-
strument; but he is no match in
eloquence for the hard-headed,
clear-voiced Cairns, especially when
the feeling of the House was set in
such a determined hostility against
the horrible Bright. Lord Gran-
ville, in substance, only said that
John Bright was a John Bull ; but
perhaps Bull was not so good a
name as Bully. But with Mr. Glad-
stone there was no competition of
oratory. Colonel North put his ques-
tion, and seemed rather frightened
at putting it, like a nervous man
shutting his eyes when he is going
to fire— « frequent predicament in
the House of Commons. The putting
of this question illustrated that in-
tense love of personalities in which
the House of Commons habitually
indulges. A debate on India has
never the interest which belongs
to some personal imputation. Al-
though the Lords were hearing
Cairns, and just about to hear Lord
Derby, the Commons' House was
full almost to overflowing, and the
Speaker made a great favour of
putting me under the gallery — the
much coveted space which the exi-
gencies of the House have caused
so greatly to be curtailed this season.
Gladstone slip j ted in by the door
behind the Speaker's chair, as is his
wont He vouchsafe*! no greeting
that I saw to any other member
than John Bright He took the
question in as pleasant a way as
Lord Palmerston himiielf could have
don& Bir. Bright bad steadily re-
fused to agitate the country while
the Irish Church Bill was under
discussion by the House of Lords.
He himself had written a letter not
unlike Mr. Bright's; but, to his
mortification, it was only printed in
small type, and had not received
any particular attention. The little
speech was very soon over— some
seven or eight minutes— and then
the House was, so to speak, at a
single gulp, quite emptied.
And now let us rapidly run
through the occupants of that front
Treasury Bench, and in separate
instances we will go more into de<
tail afterwards. Of Mr. Gladstone
we have recently spoken at such
length in these pages, that we shall
content ourselves with merely some
incidental mention.* The great
Triumvirate of that Bench is made
up of those three masterly orators,
Gladstone, Bright, and Low& That
is their proper order in oral elo-
quence; but in written eloquence
the order would be Lowe, Bright,
and Gladstone. Despite their im-
mense preponderance of ability,
these men are as little liked, and
more abused than any in the House.
The policy of the Tories towards
the Treasury Bench is the foimer
policy of the Italians towards Italy.
Italy was an artiohoka, to be eatun
leaf by leat The Treasury Bench
is to be devoured man by man.
* See Paper on Mi*. GUdstOQe in our
FebruaiT Number.
Sketches in the House of Commons.
115
There are do men towards whom
feelings of a livelier animosity exists
even on both sides of the Honse,
than towards the Triumvirate. It
is a standing wonder how Mr. Bright
and Mr. Lowe can belong to the
same Cabinet; and some men say
that the wonder cannot last very
much longer. There is a feeling of
nndisguised hostility towards Mr.
Lowe in every direction, which his
manner does so much to intensify
and so little to disarm. Mr. Lowe's
Budget speech, which was expected
to be a failure, turned out a success ;
but his set Irish speech, which was
expected to be a success, was a de-
cided failure. Once before the Tories
succeeded in hunting him from
ofiSoe, although there was really no
solid pretence for the procedure that
drove him into an involuntary resig-
nation. It is quit« on the cards,
even if the boasted majority does
not dwindle down, that Mmisters
may be beaten in detail, and that
Mr. Lowe may be the earliest victim.
There have already been rumours
that Mr. Bright has proffered his
resignation to the Cabinet We
have no confidence in such rumours
ourselves, but they are certainly not
without significance.
There ia never any mistaking
Mr. Lowe. He is an Albino, and
the mobt near-sighted of men; so
near- sighted, indeed, that the story
ffoes that this was the ecclesiasticed
blemish that prevented his obtain-
ing ordination at Oxford. He will
there be long remembered as a
private tutor with an enormous
amount of business; and he can-
didly told the Oxford University
Conunissioners that he took more
Eupils than was good either for
imaelf or for them. Seeing the
avenues to distinction so crowded
as to be virtually closed, Mr. Lowe,
the same year that he was called to
the bar, went out to Australia to
practise, and there obtained a large
share both of barristerial and sena-
torial renown. When, after eight
years, he returned to England and
sent a clever leader to the ' Times,'
the sagacious conductors of the
Jupiter at once perceived the ^:eat
value of their ally, and retained
him to write as many leaders as he
chose. He was certainly Inkier
than one man of whom we have
heard, who had to proffit thirty
or forty leaders before he coold
get one accepted, and settled down
steadily into the staff. Lu^^ier
also than another and very eminent
man, who, chagrined that his article
was altered, rejected himself, and
could never obtain his restoration.
Luckier still than another, who was
curtly informed that he was ' wrote
out' We have heard marveUons
anecdotes of the extraordinary fa-
cility with which Mr. Lowe oonki
fling off the happiest leaden for
the ' Times.'
With his usual happinesa in the
attainment of his means, he was
speedily elected for Eiddenninster.
When he first rose to address the
House, apparently a silvery octo-
genarian, but in reality having
hardly closed his eighth lustrum,
a murmur of 'The Times, the
Times,' went round, but he was
listened to with the greatest at-
tention. He fully vindieated his
Australian reputation and the fame
of the great journal with whidi he
was connected. It was a success as
easy as it was brilliant He had a
pitUess force of argument— the chain
of argument being as complete as a
demonstration of £uclid's--and a
manner perfectly self-possessed. In
this same first year of parliamentary
life he climbed the first rung of
the official ladder. He was kept
on the intermediate rungs too long
before he climbed towards tiie top.
Had he been an aristocrat he would
have been included in Lord Palmer-
ston's intensely aristocratio Cabinet ;
as it is, he must have endured some
mortification in seeing inferior men
passing over his head. Butheknew
his strength and could bide his
time, feeling sure that the occasion
would come, and that tiie man
would be equal to the hour.
The occa43ion came. Mr. Lowe,
in the mean time, had parted with
his seat at Kidderminster, being
shamefully maltreated by the roughs
— Mr. Bright has said that he never
has forgiven his broken head there
—and now enjoyed that snug seat
for Calne which had once given
Maoanlay an entrance into FarUa-
I 2
- I
116
SkeUheg m ike Heme cf Oommcm.
mentary Ufa He had vigoroiisly
opposed Mr. Locke King's bill for
lowering the suffrage, and he conld
with perfect consistency oppose the
single-barrelled bill of the Rnssell-
Gladstone ministry. It is not too
much to say that Mr. Lowe's
speeches fonned the great feature
of those memorable debates of 1866,
to which most be added his one
at oration of the following year.
Disraeli, by his laminona
speeches, certeinly proved that he
thoroughly understood the whole
Reform question best of all living
men; and the lightning of Mr.
Gladstone's eloquence nerer flashed
more yiyidiy thim in his celebrated
reply; and Mr. Bright presented
his extraordinary nmon of Saxon
eloquence and genuine humour; and
Mr. Hardy's yehement force was
applauded to the echo by his party ;
and there were many others on
whom one might dwell with more
or less emphasis of praise. But, to
our mind, the series of Mr. Lowe's
speeches formed essentially the
crowDing ornaments of those great
debates. The fancy, the vigour, the
antithesis, the epigram, the irony
and wit, the energetic force, the
strength and subtlety, the scholar-
ship, the genius, took the House
and the country by storm: they are
the Philippics of British oratory;
and, looking through the arid wilder-
ness of Hansard, there is no oaeds
where the mind and memory linger
so gratefully, which at the preseQt
day are as replete with interest and
instruction as when they were de-
livered in the vast excited audience
of Parliament, and thrown broad-
cast over the world. As he picks
his way down to Westminster with
rapid, quiet steps, the eyes blinking,
the lips moving, he is construct-
ing those terse, pointed sentences
which will arouse an incessant storm
of laughter and applausa The ha-
bitual expression of his &oe has
been defined as a mixture between
a sneer and a giggrle; and it is a
joke against him that when other
members devour oranges in the
House he prefers lemons. Mr. Lowe
is popularly said to be a man with-
out a heart, or, rather, one whose
heart is a mere bit of muscular
tissue. Admiring his g;eiiins a\
moral courage, I much regret \\
unpopularity, which it is not wfi
for lum almost to court as he don
Most people felt a little jubilatio
when they saw the stately maniK;
in which Mr. Disraeli — to whom M\
"Lowe is always a bete noir — admi
nistered a rebuke to him the othej
day at the Trinity Honse dinner
It is impossible in this connto
that any man should OTer make hiis
mark as a popular statesman with-
out being a man capable of gennino
sympathy. It is much to be in-
tensely clever; but intense clever-
ness alone never moved the national
heart. To all outward seeming Mr.
Lowe is incapable of sympathy. It
is said that his manner of receiving
a deputation is becoming a standard
joke. He goes on reading his cor-
respondence— which is so immense
that it must necessarily leave him
very little leisure— holdins the pa-
pers close to his eye ; and if he is
asked a question his answer invari-
ably is, ' I don't know. I shouldn't
tell you if I did. It is very wrong
of you to ask the question.' The
other day a deputation, consisting
of managers and clerks of savings-
banks, came to him, pointing out
that their vocation may soon be gone,
that those institutions would cease
to exist 'And why should they
exist?' asked Mr. Lowe. The answer
was worthy of Cardinal Richelieu.
When a poor man pleaded that
'a man must live,' ' Je ne vois pas
la necessity/ said the Cardinal
Mr. Bright ought, at least, to re-
ceive a chapter to himself; and it is
only in a very partial way that we
can deal with him now. Take him
for all in all, he is perhaps the
greatest orator that England pos-
sesses. Members of the Honse will
say — perhaps even the most esoteric
Gladstonites—that they would rather
hear Bright than any other living
speaker. As a parliaiuentary orator
Mr. Gladstone is, we think, fully his
equal. But then Mr. Gladstone \&
at home on the front Treasary
bench as he is at home nowhere
else. So to speak, he is there on his
native heath. However effective he
may be at times when lecturing, or
on the stump, it is in Parliament
Sketchei in Ae House of Commons.
117
that he shows to the greatest ad-
Tantage and is most thoroughly at
home. Bat Mr. Bright is most at
home when he sees six thousand
people before him ; and he buttons
up nis coat, and has a look in his
eye which means mischief. Mr.
Bright is emphatically the Tribune
of the People. He is a bom orator^
an orator, moreover, who has im-
proved his vast natural powers by
mtense oultiyation. Naturally he
speaks the purest and most nervous
Saxon; but when he was laid aside
by bronchitis he evidently applied
himself most assiduously to the
study of literature, and then was
added to his style a delicaqy, a ripe-
ness, a fulness, which that sl^le
had not previously possessed in so
ample a d^ree. We do not know
the process of alchemy with which
Mr. Bright constructs those won-
deriul speeches. M^e have been told
that he learns them off by heart
We should find great difficulty in
believing this; but, at the same
time, it is, at least, quite clear that
large sections of them have been
carefully prepared, and that sen-
tences constructed with such con-
summate art cannot have been the
result of the inspiration of the mo-
ment Mr. Bright also conciliates
hearty sympathy from the fact that
he has won his way to his lofty emi-
nence by the sheer stress and force
of genius. Altogether there is no
man who has taken his seat on the
Treasury bench who so entirely re-
tains his individuality and inde-
pendence. We have heard a touch-
mg story, that when Mr. Jobn Bright,
cotton-spinner and manufacturer, of
Bochdale, was a widower, sunk in
grief by the loss of his youog wife,
he was sought out by his acquaint-
ance, the late Mr. Cobden, who, as
an anodyne to his sorrow, besought
him to join with him, heart and
soul, in his crusade against the
Corn Laws. Cobden and Bright,
the calico-printer and the cotton-
spinner, became household names in
England, and a power in the State.
When the Anti-Gom-Law League
was transferred from Manchester to
London they emerged from a pro-
vincial to a national celebrity. At
a meeting at the Grown and Anchor,
in the Strand, in 1842, Mr. Bright
made the first of those great speeches
which have expanded into volumes,
which furmsh us almost with the
highest extant examples of British
oratory. It was in the same year
that Mr. Bright, as the member of a
deputation, waited on the President
and Yice-PrcBident of the Board of
Trade, at that time being the Earl
of Ripon and Mr. Gladstone. Then,
for tne first time, they met &oe to
£ice. Did any prescient flash tell
the two men of the sympathy and
intimacy that should hereafter arise
between them? The kaleidoscope
has wrought its changes, and Mr.
Bright is now President of the
BouxL of Trade, and the young
Vice-President has become Prime
Minister. It was in 1843 that he
sat in Parliament as member for
DurhaoL Four years later he was
member for Manchester, as a col-
league of Mr. Mihier Gibson. For
ten years he continued to represent
Manchester, until he was ejected in
1857, in that general election which
supported Lord Palmerston with so
full a tide of popular enthusiasm.
Mr. Bright had rendered lus name
synonymous with the Peace-at-any-
price theory — a theory which the
nation indignantly repudiated. He
has maintained the peace doctrine
with the utmost courage and force,
and in the teeth of the most violent
storm of opposition. On the sub-
ject of the Crimean war he placed
himself in antn^^onism witn the
whole aroused spirit of the nation;
but Mr. Bright never shrinks from
the loudest blast of opposition. To
him such acts as an incentive, and
not as a deterrent It braces his
nerves, it strings his energies. In
the long run such intrepidity tells
heavily and distinctly. Tohisgal-
lantiy-eamed reputation for bdd-
ness and honesty Mr. Bright is
indebted for that vast moral weight
which he eigoys among oountleBS
thousands all over the country.
For ourselves, while believing that
Mr. Bright is essentially an honest
man, we doubt how fiur such moral
weight is duly his. It will be seen
that we desire to give him most
ungrudging and unb6unded praise
to his magnificent achievements;
118
8ketche$ in the Bouse of Commom,
bat it appears to ns that his career
hat involved him in some of the
most grievous inoonsistencieB which
it is possible to imagine. Techni-
call J a man of peace, Mr. Bright is
really and truly a man of war.
Teefanieally he wonld tnm aaide
with infinite loathing from the speo-
tMle of the slightest bloodshed ; but
amid the remoter links of the chain
of eansation he has been bni^ in
promotiDg those canses which in all
ages of the world's history have
mostly kiDdled conflagration, and un-
leashed the dogs of war. To set race
agaiBst race, class aeainst class^order
against order, is the natural result
of his long oratorical career. Just
as wide waters gain immense force
by shooting through a narrow
goige, so Mr. Brighfs eloquence
gains intense force by reason of that
ver^ narrowness of mind through
which that eloquence is presented.
Mr. Bright is a Paganini, who can
play with matchless skill, but can
only play upon a single string. He
is enentially narrow and hourgeois,
with a mind which presents a total
tabula rasa in respect to the associa-
tkmfl and traditions of our national
Instiory. It is a pity, also, that Mr.
Biighi mars his real greatness hj
aa occasional want of generosity and
sindgfatforwarduess. There was
something absolutely mean and un-
generous in the way in which he
aaaanlted Mr. Disraeli on his men-
tion oi the Queen's name, and made
the latter say, with terrible emphasiB,
that he put himself in the hands of
genUemm. Let us hope, however,
that Lord Lytton's kindly prophecy
will be fulfilled in respect to the
President of the Board of Trade:—
' Let Bright responsible for EngUod be,
JLDd ilraigbt in Bright a Chatham we shouUI
lEr. Oardwell is a man who is
a highly favourable specimen of a
bureaucrat He has for many
yean sat for Oxford, with a very
safe seat, except once when he lost
it^ until Mr. Neate was unseated
on petition, and once when it was
secioasly challenged by the late
Mr. Thackeray. Mr. Oardwell, a
double-first at Oxford, went the
Norti^em Circuit for a time, but,
wisely abandoning it, the obscure
barrister became a very eminent
politician. He was just the kioci
of man for whom Sir Robert PocJ
would feel a kindness, and he was
not only quite a favourite among
'Peel's Bo>s,' and pushed cowards
in the path of political advance-
ment, but Sir Robert left him one
of his literary executors in con-
junction with Earl Stanhopa We
cannot say that to our mind this
literally executorship was ever satis-
fiictorily fulfilled, or that the execu-
tors qui^e cleued up that dnbions
cloud which appears to have at-
tached itself to the memory of this
great statesman. It appears pro-
bable that the times were too recent
to allow of the publication of all
the documentary evidence designed
for his exculpation from the charge
of political tergiversation brought
agamst him. As a Peelite of the
Peelites Mr. Oardwell has a special
afi^ity for Mr. Gladstone, and he is
as heavy or^ance to the Oabinet,
but as a speaker he is dispiriting to
a degree.
But there has been no parlia-
mentary rise so rapid because so
entirely unexpected as that of Mr.
Gosohen. His name tells us that
he is of German origin, his grand-
father being, we understand, a
Leipsic publisher. He is perhaps
the most distinguished of the pnpiis
whom the present Archbishop Tait
educated at Rugby. He went to
Oriel, and took a first class in the
schools, and then quietly settled
down as a merchant in the paternal
office at Austin Friars. Among'the
Oity men Mr. Goschen made a great
reputation. The Oity is bv no
means indifferent to academic
culture; on the contraiy, it has
a high and even exagfrerated pense
of its importance, and Mr. Goschen's
first class must, in no poor way,
have backed up his practical busi-
ness talents. Me also did himself
infinite credit by a publication
entitled the 'Theory of Foreign
Exchange.' In 1863 he was first
returned as one of t^e memhera of
the Oity of London, and so satisfied
were his constituents with their
careful choice that last election they
returned him at the head of the
poll. He had only been a year and
Sketches in ike Hfnue of Commons.
119
a half in the House when he was
made Yioe-President of the Board
of Tra^e, and he had hardly held
that office for a couple of months
when he was made a Cabinet
Minister as Chancellor of the
Duchy of Lancaster. Such pro-
motion is almost the most rapid on
record. It naturally elicited a great
•dead of criticism. What had this
young man done to be passed over
the heads of his seniors, especially a
senior of such undoubted powers as
Mr. Layard ? And even supposing
that he poeseesed such transoendent
abilil^, what particular scope for
his ability would be found in such
a siuecure office as the Chancellor-
ship of the Dacby of Lancaster?
When Mr. Goschen became a
<}abinet Minister he brought ail
his engagements with the flourish-
ing commercial house of Goschen
to a close, believing that in this
xsountry statesmanship and trade
4ue incompatible crafts. We
imagine, however, that Mr. Goschen
must financially be a loser by this
honourable exchange. He had been
■a Cabinet Minister for five months
wl^ he went out in the summer
of '66, when his chief. Earl Bussell,
who had given him his much-
canvassed promotion, made his final
retirement from office. He is now
once more reinstated in the Cabinet,
with an apparently better chance of
« longer continuance in office, as
Presiaent of the Poor Law Board.
This office belongs to a department
of public affiiirs which confessedly
is m a most unsatisfactory con-
ation, and which will give Mr.
Goschen abundant scope for all his
-energies. It can hardly be said
that up to the present point he has
quite justified tne expectations that
nave been formed respecting him.
He is supposed to have half a dozen
important Bills on hand, but the
Irish Bill seems effectually to have
stopped the way of all other legis-
lation. Still Mr. Goschen mani-
festly possesses great statesmanlike
qualities, and has probably a great
career before him.
If Lord Hartington had not
been Lord Hartington, it is hard to
believe that he would ever have
been a Cabinet Minister: but the
heir of the dukedom of Devonshire
and the earldom of Burlington is a
power in the state. He is not,
mdeed, so clever a man as his
father— by no possibility can he
ever be so clever and so learned —
but he is a very fiur debater, which
his father is not It is positively
painful to hear the Duke of Devon-
shire stammering through one of
his most sensible speeches, repeat-
ing half of each sentence and in a
high state of stammering; and it
is hardly to be regretted that he
speaks so rarely. But he is an
astonishing man, inheriting a large
portion of the genius of the
philosopher Cavendish, Second
Wrangler and First Smith's
Prizeman at Cambridge— and, as
his son Lord Hartington has been
heard to say— knowing everything
and forgetting nothing. Not so
wide and profound in £)owledge —
not, indeed, under the suspicion of
possessing a twentieth part of such
knowledge— Lord Hartington has
yet talent and presence, and may do
his party and the country efficient
service. He fought last autumn
the most splendid contest of the
whole General Election, the house of
Cavendish being pitted against the
house of Stanley, and he experienced
that kind of defeat which is hardly
less honourable than a victory. He
might have been excluded from
Parliament, but a private gentle-
man, of a benevolent and philan-
thropic turn, thought it a thousand
pities that the son of a duke should
be without a seat in Parliament^
especially when a seat in the
Cabinet probably depended on it«
and so patriotically ehminated him-
self from the House to make way
for Lord Hartington. The out-
going Member declared that he had
no personal motive, and his yery
appellation — Green Pryce — was
suggestive of the fact; but in the
world of politics, as elsewhere,
'smners lena to sinners hoping to
receive as much again.' It will
be remembered that Lord Hart-
ington moved, in 1859, the vrant
of confidence motion which ejected
the Derbyites from power. He also
belonged to Lord Granville's special
mission to Bussia, in 1856, on the
120
Skdcku Ml 1h$ HousB of Commons.
occamon of the Czar's coronation;
his consin, the last Doke, had been
Ambassador to Russia with extra-
ordinary splendoor, and had been
a personal friend of the Czar
Nicholas.
But we mnst now torn to the
new blood of which Mr. Gladstone
has niade a liberal infasion.
Mr. Childers is another Ans-
tralian ; he, marrying some twenty
years ago, sailed away to Anstialia
to try fortone at the antipodes, and
he learned statesmanship in the
very first Legislatiye Assembly that
met for the colony of Victoria. He
only arrived in Australia the year
before Mr. Lowe quitted it, and side
by side th^ first become members
of the British Cabinet He only
entered Parliament in 1860, so his
success has been as rapid as his
career has been full of force and
ability. We believe it is something
wonderful to reflect in how many
difierent companies Mr. Childers
has been attached as director or as
chairman. He turned his financial
talents to account as Financial
Secretary to the Treasury. But it
was in reference to the Admiralty
that Mr. Childers achieved a special
reputation. His first Government
post was that of junior Lord oi
the Admiralty, and afterwards he
always sustained an unceasing
system of vigilant criticism upcm
all Admiralty detail. Synthesis is
harder, always, than analysis ; and
it remains to be seen whether Mr.
Childers can do all the great things
which he gave us to understand by
implication to be susceptible of
accomplishment.
Mr. Bruce is another of the novi
homines, that is to say, of those who
are comparatively untried and are
sitting in the Cabinet for the first
time. As Secretary of State for
the Home Department he takes pre-
cedence of the other Secretaries of
State. He is connected with some
illustrious names, for he is nephew
to the late Lord Justice Knight
Bruce, whose legal fame will long
live in the law courts, and he mar-
ried a daughter of Sir William
Napier, the historian of the Penin-
sular War, and also the niece of Sir
Charles Napier, the conqueror of
Scinde. For seventeen years he
represented Merthyr TydvU, a very
unsavoury locality to represent,
unpleasing and ungrateful, and
threw him over eventoally in
favour of a dissenting minister. It
is rather hard lines upon the Church
of England and on Boman Catholics,
that whUe any Dissenting or Pres-
byterian minister can sit in Parlia-
ment, this is not permitted to ai^
one who has received episcopal ordi-
nation. When he had been in Par-
liament for ten years, Lord Palmer-
ston— having certainly taken plenty
of time to turn over the matter in
his mind— made Mr. Bruce Under-
Secretary in the very department
where he is now Secretary of State.
When the Tories succeeded in eject-
ing Mr. Lowe from his office of Vice-
President of the Council, Mr. Bruce
became the virtual Minister of Edu-
cation, having to give way to Lord
Bobert Monti^g^ on the accession of
the Derby Government. Mr. Bruce
has moved with the times, and —
possibly under some eleotoiul pres-
sure— has reoentiy become a convert
to the doctrine of the Ballot As
Mr. Gladstone, under the tuition of
Mr. Bright, is obviously inclining
this way, it is not hard to see in
what direction we shall have an-
other parliamentary conflict It is
quite pretty to see how the new
Cabinet mmisters are plucking up
under the genial sunshine of prospe-
rity. Wiu a strong Government
and a popular Premier, they are
evidently calculating on a prolonged
tenure of power. Mr. Bruce, who
has been described as a ' hesitating,
under-his-breath-talking, diffident
gentleman,' has lost those amiable
characteristics, and comes out every
inch a Cabinet minister. Mr. Chil-
ders, steady and stalwart and
' bearded like a Pard,' fills both the
eye and the imagination, and gives
us ftdly to understand how he will
demolish any pseudo-Childers who
may inveigh against Admiralty ex-
penditure.
Now here are the great law-offi-
cers of the Crown, tiie Attorney-
General and the Solicitor-GenenJ.
We wiU take the Solicitor-General
first, as being in every respect
the more important of the two.
Skelckea in ike House of Commons.
121
Thftt ^780 Sir John Duke Cole-
ridge's own yeiy decided opinion
when he at first refused to serve
under Sir Robert Collier, nntil his
hesitating ' No ' was, in amost lady-
like way, converted into a very well-
satisfied ' Tes.' The Solicitor-Gene-
ral is probably the finest advocate
at the bar. He has also some states-
manlike qualities, and has a very
OQDsiderable reputation in the House
of Ccmunons. His maiden speech,
three years ago, on the subject of
Univeraity B^orm, was the most
snccessfdl maiden speech made for
many years within tne House. Sir
John has never advanced beyond
the point indicated by that speech;
indeed one or two speeches which
he made were comparative fiulures,
but on the whole he has mamtained
his lepatation. He is a man who
in a very thorough way has main-
tained the hononr and independence
of the English bar. His practice is
now immense, and he has conducted
very heavy cases with great ability,
and in a manner that has obtained
for him the highest credit In the
8anrincase,especially,— which made
such an extraordinary inroad upon
his time that he described it as an
exercise of poverty to himself and
lir. Hellish— his speeches and the
general management of the case
were beyond all praise. But Sir
John is much more than a very
successful barrister. He has larger
studies, wider sympathies, stronger
convictions, both ecclesiastical and
political, than most barristers are
accredited with. He gave the other
day, in a brief compass, a most ex-
cellent enunciation of the morality
of advocacy: 'It was one of the first
rules of the profession that a man,
whether guilty or innocent, whether
the victim of unjust prejudice or
not, should be able to retain the
services of an advocate, in order to
see that justice was done him. It
was because the bar had not the
right to make selections and to form
their own opmions on cases, that the
profession hebelonged to was the pro-
feasionofagentleman. Ifthe bar were
to identify ^emselves with their cli-
ents, and to exercise their ownjudg-
mentinrespect to thecases submitted
to them, they would be open to the
base charge of selling their convic-
tions and opinions, which no person,
with a knowledge of the facts, could
venture to impute to them now.' It
was this reputation at the bar, and
the wide reputation which he enjoys
beyond the limits of lus profession,
which have greatly determined Sir
John's reputation in Parliament.
The lawyer whom he most re-
sembles in his career is Sir Alexan-
der Cockbum, who, by a single
great effort, made his parliamentary
and forensic reputation equal. But
neither at the bar or in Parliament
will the Solidtor-Qeneral ever be
the equal of the Lord Chief Justice
of England. ' There were giants in
those days,' but giantdom is almost
over. The barristers hardly take
ten per cent of the profits made by
solicitors, and a deterioration must
be the inevitable result Sir John
Coleridge was long the rival of Sir
John Earslake, on the Western Cir-
cuit, and after the latter had be-
come a law adviser of the Crown
he was the undisputed leader. It
was said that the solicitors gene-
rally went to Earslake for law, and
to Coleridge for eloquence. That
is Sir John Earslake, on the other
side, much knocked up, it is said,
by his excessive work when At-
tomey-Qeneral ; but though he has
never made the set speeches in
which his honourable and learned
firiend indulges, he is every whit
as great a favourite in the House
from his handsome presence and
Eleasant manner. The work of
kw officer involves heavy work
and heavy gains. Lord Hatherly,
the Chancellor, when, as Sir W. P.
Wood, he became Solicitor-General,
resigned the office in less than a
twelvemonth, because 'it entailed
u pon him so large an amount of late
work, and so interfered with his
domestic life and comfort of home.'
A Solicitor-General, however, must
not mind late work, and domestic
life and the comforts of home must
not have too potent a charm for
him. SirJohn Coleridge burst upon
the House in a character which one
would least expect from a barrister,
as a remarkable instance of ingenu-
ousness and innocence. Such a suc-
cessful surprise could not, however.
132
Skdche$ im the Home ofOommatiM.
besr npotitioiL MoieoY6r, tboo^
8o ooortams and urbane. Sir John
has always got hia spun in fighting
order. He wears steel beoeath hia
gkrra After the tehion of the P.B.,
he wiU ahake handa handsomely
with an opponent before perfonning
the operation of blacking hia ^ea.
When Mr. Fawoett^ the other day,
aaked some qnestion about his ap-
pearing as eooDsel for the Qnmeya
— Mr. Ea woett is the blind memb^,
rather a straight, sallow man, ear-
nest, thonghtfol-looking, and wears
specfaclea— Sir John fell upon him
with absolute savagery, ana showed
that sleekness and purr have less
agreeable accompaniments. Sir John
has an hereditaiy reputation to sup-
port, which he has nobly Tindicated ;
and though he will probably attain
a higher i)0st than uat held by his
iktber, it is impossible that he can
eiceed the measure of reverence
and affection with which Judge
Coleridge was justly regarded by
his contemporaries.
Sir J. P. OoUier is a man of much
versatility and taleni As member
fisr Plymouth, where his family are
of good standing in the wine trade,
he represents an important and
popular constituency. The At-
torney-General is a man of many
accomplishments. We believe that
he has exhibited at the Boyal Aca-
demy. Both as a lawyer and in Par-
liament he has at tunes acquitted
himself respectably. He has con-
ducted cases very nicely; especially
when Miiller was tried for the rail-
way murder, he conducted the pro-
secution at the Old Bailey very ably.
He might have been one of the three
puisne judges appoiDted under the
Government of Mr. Disraeli, but he
wisely reserved himself for greater
things. He had a strong political
claim on the office of Attorney-
General, which it was found im-
possible to ignore. Nevertheless,
this was probably the weakest ap-
pointment made by Mr. Gladstoce
on his accession to power. It Med
to command weight either with the
profession ot with the country. In
glancing over the Law BeportB yon
very rarely find the name of the Ai-
tomey-Geneial except on Crown
business. Sir John Coleridge spoke
the other night amid huighter of the
Bupposititiona case of barristBrs se-
lected as law olBcen of the Grown,
whom no peraona would engage in
any important case, and tiie confi-
deoce of the Crown being extended
only to those to whom nobody else
woukl extend confideooe! It is
not to be supposed that the Solioitar-
General meant this as a satire upon
his chief, whose appointment he
strongly condemned— it was, indeed,
whispered that his friends expected
that he would be Attom^-General
himself or possibly Lord OhanceUor
per mHum—hrA there is an old pro-
verb about the cap fitting. But
both these lawyos pale altogether in
reputation before that great states-
man-barrister. Sir Boundell Palmer,
who, in moral elevation, is unsur-
passed in the House, through his
glorious disinterestedness in refus-
ing, tiirough a scruple which most
politicians would easily overcome,
the most splendid prize within the
reachoftiie subject, and which would
have placed him next to the throne
itselfl He now commands almost
the veneration of the House and
the counixy: a thoughtful, quie^
self-restrained, self-balanced man is
Sir Boundell in repose, but trea-
sures of force are stored up within
that quiet exterior. He can be hu-
morous, as when he attacked Mr.
Layard on the Courts of Justice
anestion; and intense emotion,
bough held in check, can be
blended with severest reasoniog,
as in that masterly speech on the
Irish Church, which, in intellectual
and moral power, has been the
greatest effort this session in the
House of Commons.
oontwuedi)
--^^l
^J>
.^*v3K
123
A HARP ACCOMPANIMENT.
W
row that the newspapers are
teeming with advertiflements
of fBtft-sailing packets, cheap ezcnr-
sion trains, combinations to secure
to companies of toorists all the ad-
Tantages that can be obtained daring
a swift inspection of continental
cities and a tmndle through cele-
brated picture-galleries, cathedrals,
and museums, it is confusing to the
man who learns daily that 'eveiy-
body is out of town' when he sees
so many people in the streets, and
he hardly knows which to admire
most, the elasticity of language or
the Tast population represented by
'nobody/
If eveiybody is out of town, what
becomes of nobody who still throngs
the hot, dusty streets, crowds the
penny steamboatEf, struggles to the
roofs of omnibuses, slakes his thirst
at the metropolitan luncheon-bars,
opens and shuts shops and ware-
houses for the sake of appearances,
and generally pervades all London,
just as though he had any right to
be within the cab radius and on the
stones, when he is supposed to be
concerned in what we all join in
calling the 'general exodus,' and
to be enjoying the holiday season,
that leaves town empty and gives a
pathetic interest to the last enters
iainments of the season?
We all know where everybody
goes, although we are a little puzzled
to learn from special correspondents
that in a corporate capacity every-
bodv resembles Sir Bojle Boohe*s
birci in the ability to be in two
E laces at one tima 'Everybody is
ere,' writes the gay chronicler at
Biarritz; and 'I like to go to Mar-
gate beoiuse one meets everybody
there,' says the confidential corre-
spondent describing the glories of
the Hall by the Sea. 'The clubs
are empty ; everybody has left the
Bow and gone to Baden, Homburg,
and the other places where the pur-
suit of health is mitigated by the
amusements to be found in the
Kursaal,' declares the fashionable
intelligencer who thinks he was
onoe in the Poultry, or Mile End,
or Shoreditch, or some of thoEe
places east of Temple Bar.
We have seen everybody at Chis-
wick, at Hampton Wick, at Henley-
on-Thames, at South Kensington,
and half a dozen other places, but
tell us when and tell us where does
nobody go when the sun scorches
the pavement in Begent Street and
the fountain at the Boyal Exchange
runs dry?
Well, to a good many places;
but before you are thoroughly in
the secret you must know nobody
and be quite out of everybody's
sodety for a time at all events. To
begin with, it will be as well to
commence a course of explorative
wanderings in back streets and
rather slummy neighbourhoods ; to
become familiar with certain taverns
where, in rooms decorated with sym-
bolic devices, benefit societies, more
or less philanthropic in their aims,
and more or less 'united' in their
determinations, hold their meetings;
to lurk about the doorways of
' halls' or lecture-rooms not uncon-
nected with particular callings, and
study the highly-ornamental an-
nouncements that 'the annual ex-
cursion of the " Loyal Amalgamated
Clickers," the " Bein vested Associa-
tion of the BeguUr Bufiiers," or the
" Woodmen of Trees No. i, a, and 3,"
to that well-known place of resort
the Old Welsh Harp at Hendon
will be held on Monday: tickets,
including the &re there and back
and tea in the romantic pleasure-
grounds, 35. 6€L
'In addition to the beauties of
nature for which that well-known
resort is celebrated, there will be
added to the attractions of the
grounds the games of Aunt Sally,
archery and rifle-practice, pony and
donkey-riding, boating on the mag^
nificent lakes, and choice angling
for lovers of " the gentle art."
' N.B.--The prty will start at ten
o'clock precisely in six of Plodder's
celebrated four-horse covered light
vaus, and a first-rate band of music
will accompany the excursion.'
Should you be in any mysterious
124
A Earp AeeompaiUwieaL
way ocnmected with nobody em-
ployed in a pnnting-offioe, or with
nobody who is a member oi, say
the Ck>operatiye AKOciaiion of Un-
mitigated Brass Button Btampera,
you will still find that the mnsic of
the Old Welsh Harp has an attrso-
tion which leads the imagination to
an annual ' wayzgoose' dinner or to
a celebration sometimes called a
bean-feast, but which more £re-
<;inently takes the genteel appella-
tion of festiyaL It is on some each
occasicm as this that yon see nobody
in full force, and the resources of
the well-known hostelry at Hendon
are displayed to the ntmoet adyan-
Not that the pleasure-gxonndsare
without interest when a few ardent
sportsmen alone are engaged in
' palling out the two-ponnden' from
the great laka Th^ is a gentle-
man known to everybody when
everybody is in town for his extra-
ordinary performances in the cha-
racter of ' the Perfect Cure/ whose
quiet hours of recreation and relief
nom saltatoiy exercise are spent in
piscatorial pursuits ; and if that is
not a genteel way of mentioning the
fact Mr. Stead goes a fishing at
Hendon it is difficult to say what
would be. Our model for this form
of expression is to be found in the
posters and handbills before referred
to, and by them we are able to form
a style at once ornate and emphatic.
When nobody individually goes to
the Old Welsh Harp there are plenty
of objects for pleasant meditation.
The natural history of the place is
richly represented in the*fiist room
to which you are directed; that
pleasant bright parlour where speci-
mens of the remains of great jack,
and every eminently-edible fresh-
water fish in which the chain of
lakes abounds, occupy honourable
positions in plate* glaas sarcophagi,
while the ornithological collection,
increased weekly by the unerring
gun of Mr. Warner, the genial pro-
grietor, would have delighted the
eart of GQbert White of Selbome.
It is true that the live creatures
are not all to the .manor born ; and
the Australian piping-crow, who
welcomes you with a tune like the
notes of a magic flute, and barks
like a hospitable dog, may be said
to share with the wild cat, which
lives in a tree and will come down
to be stroked and fed, the foreign
honourB of the place; but hve
hound and painter, stojOGed king-
fisher and gaunt bittern, alike attest
a place which nobody declares is
* the same as being a hundred miles
in the country.'
Then there is philosophic contem-
plation for the reflective mind in
the walks and terraces, the rustic
seats and tables, the empty arbours
carefully built with rural thatches,
but recognising the demands of
civilization by being each provided
with a special gas-lamp of its own
which gives them rather a watch-
box air, but at the same time in-
spires confidence. Far beyond, on
level pasture and undulating field,
stands a real farm, not a toy affiur,
made to look rustic by pictorial
artifice, mind you, but a thorough
good sixteen hundred acres, or there-
about, with fine lush grass and
herds of dappled kine grazing even
down to tiw edge of the glas^
spring whence the river-fiad lakes
are brimmed. New milk, in a regi-
ment of great tin vessels ready to
be sent to London underground,
represents the produce of the place,
you, that is to say, everybody,
may have had some intimation of
Hendon in connection with the race-
course,— itself a kind of outiying
connection of the Harp, which figu-
ratively plays so many tunes; but
do not fancy, even after you have
run down and staked a new hat on
your favourite pony, and having
won or lost have scuttied up to
town again arter a hasty refresh-
ment at the roadside hostelry which
has so much behind it, that you
have seen the place as nobody has.
Nobody goes down to eii^y his holi-
day when everybody has done with
racing for tiie season, or has not yet
begun it, and there is much to see
at the village itself even apart from
the Harp, if indeed Hendon can be
separated from that most musical
association. Whether you take your
way by Edgeware or by Hampstead
across the Heath to the villi^ge on
the Brent— whether the Harp be
silent or only represented by the
A Harp Aeeompaniment,
125
musical cadence of the parlour-bell,
or the singing of birds m the trees,
or the casual performance of an
itinerant negro tronpe who are on
the tramp, you are reminded of a
happy combination of the contem-
plative and the festive element.
Witness that fiEurm-like kitchen
where row after row the great tea-
cups of blae ware attest the tem-
Serate habits of the visitors; where,
isdaining the coddling appliances
of patent stoves, the presiding
nymph of the culinary art stands
proudly before a genuine old-
nushioned range, and surveys the
succulent joints, the tenderly-em-
browned ohickens, the juicy and
piquant ham, the savoury goslings,
the innocently-suggestive custards,
and the freshly-odorous pies with a
consciousness of being equal to any
occasion, ay, even to the Associated
Corporation of Unmitigated Brass
Button Stampers, whose annual
celebration has been long ago
heralded at their head-quarters— a
rather dingy hall at the top of a
wholesale warehouse— by a distri-
bution of five hundred tickets.
These five hundred, representing
nobody while in town, where the
recollection of the lon^ line of bur-
nished omnibuses waitmg to convey
them are a glory to the neighbour-
hood for the entire smnmer, are
now on the road, the leading vehicles
dashing along behind four spanking
peys apiece, and the others bring-
ing up the rear with the profes-
sional brass band, which is already
in l^e full harmony of that con-
certed melody composed expressly
for such occasions, and entitled
' Gome to the Welsh Harp/ with an
emphasis on the to admirably ex-
pressed by the trombone. Bemark-
able are the hats of the ' Associated'
as eidiibiting every variety of male
head-dress, from the brightly-bur-
nished 'best velvet' at ten and six
to the * leghorn fiftncy ' or the varie-
gated cricketing cap; for some of
them mean cricket, while their
wives sit and mind the children or
stroll about the grounds until dinner
is ready. Others have evidently
some faint sense of a rowing cos-
tume, by the exhibition of a good
deal of blue-striped shirt and a nar-
row-brimmed straw hat: a fishing-
rod here and there proclaims the
ardour for sport which finds its
representative in every British
breast; and though the majority
adopt the usual black coat, sprigged-
velvet waistcoat, blue and crimson
satin tie, and hard-looking hat that
leaves a red rim on the forehead of
the wearer, which are distinctive of
respectability and the severe re-
sponsibilities of paternity and citi-
zenship, there is sufficient variety
of costume, especially in the wo-
men's dresses, to add gay fiecks and
patches of colour to the trim garden
walks and flowery slopes and
mounds of the pleasure-ground.
The insatiable propensity of the true
Briton for refreshments is manifest
directly the first team is drawn up
in true sporting style at the door of
thefunous hosteby. 'Our worthy
host,' as Mr. Warner is generally
termed in newspaper records of
these events, is at the door, and Ids
ruddy Cemo and burly figure towers
above most of the 'Unmitigated,'
who are already seekmg the bar,
and thronging out into the garden
with glasses and tankarda Let us
be honest chroniclers and add that
shandy gaff— a frothy but refreshing
compound of ginger-beer and ale-
is most in request, and that as a
little of it goes a long way, and
there is a sort of gentility in drink-
ing it from the long-stemmed glasses,
the ladies prefer it to headier ana
more expensive beverages. For two
or three houn the great company
disperses into groups, some of which,
witn women and children, make
family parties under the trees, con-
tent to breathe the sweet, invigo-
rating air, to catch the gleam and
glow of flowers, the glory of sun-
light through trees and on water,
and to listen to the soothing hum
of the distant farm-yard, broken
now and then by the shot of a dis-
tant gun, or the shouts and laughter
of the cricketera and donkey-ridera
in the next fields behind the long
row of arbours.
Some few are already gathered in
the vast dining-room, a building
that might be a baronial hall or a
temporarv church, or a model school
without the desks and forms, but is
126
A Earp Aecomjpcmmetit^
in leality like neither, sinoe beneath
its lofty, high-pitched loof are long
rows of gleaming tables, and scores
of grand, polished Windsor chairs,
each with ample width of arm and
cunningly -deviBed bottom rails
which will encradle a hat and pre^
serve it nninjored. Here a detach-
ment of invincible waiters in a com-
plete uniform of clean shirt-sleeves
and straw hats are busy spreading
snowy drapery, and covering it with
eleaming glass and china, flowers,
mut, deep-tinted wine, and sug-
SBtive sauces. Already those who
ve incontinently strayed towards
the precincts of the kitchen— an
outbuilding from the house, and
lying in concealed contiguity to the
ludl itself— have detected appetising
odours, and, reg^tting that prema-
ture indulgence in biscuit and cheese,
are wondering whether the property
usually attributed to sherry and
bitters has any foundation in fact
JBefore they have made up their
minds to try, the clanging of a
mighty bell warns those who are far
a field that there is but half an hour
or so to wait, and after due appli-
cation of soap and water and clean
towels the company files in, the
band having already shown itself
worthy of the utmost confidence by
playing its best and loudest while
the dishes appear as if summoned
by magic, ana the plates are shuffled
and dealt like a pack of cards in a
ooDJuring trick. Fish, flesh, and
fowl, boiled, stewed, and roast— five
mortal courses from salmon to straw-
berries—surely nobody has an appe-
tite which can exceed that of the
co-operatives who may now be
spoken of as everybody, since they
are of the great aggr^ate which
is 'out of town.' It would be
impossible to describe that din-
ner, but it is pleasant to sit there
with a fine sense of having eaten
both wisely and well, and to watch
the earnest endeavours of the more
sportive guests to ' try the waiters.*
They may try and try again, but
those agile purveyors to the public
mouth are well up to their work,
and so fiur from there being any sign
of giving in, either on their part or
on the part of the Old Welsh Harp,
fresh relays of toothsome vianas
come in smoking hot, when every-
body is faint with the recollection
of his achievements, or cool salads
and a dish of crystal ice refresh the
Altering and reassure the donbtfuL
Meanwhile the band, which has
mightily strengthened itself^ is at
it once more, and in the enthusiastic
loyalty of the weQ-fed, the usual
patriotic toasts are celebrated with
such a national anthem as for a
moment startles the birds in the
distant corn, and causes the big-eyed
cows in the pastures to lift their
slow necks and send back a melo-
dious bellow in response.
So with 'Here's success to the
Old Welsh Harp, and let us hope,
ladies and gentlemen, that we may
meet here again this time next year,'
the assembly is once more scattered,
once more reunited in clusters at
the tables where tea and water-
cresses befit the tender seriousness
of the evening hour. Then a few
scattered notes from the comet, a
clattering of hoofs, a hurried de-
mand for parting drinks and fusees
and screws of best birdseye, and
everybody is gone back to town to
become nobody once more; while
the notes of the Welsh Harp are
hushed in the silence of the summer
night
127
WHICH OF THE THREE?
I
I (IliLlTSTBATED.)
TT7HICH of the three so sweet, I wonder,
T T Do sensibre bachelors long to woo.
By wayelets' wash and ripple, and under
The haze of a sky which is blue— so bine !
A magnet thrill at the heart should beckon
The passionate boys to the rocks to see
Such deep-sea treasures, and pause to reckon.
Their chance and choice of the maidens three.
Which of the three ? 'tis weaiy choosing,
A tale which Paris of old b^^.
For two must bitterly hate for losing.
And only one can adore who wins.
A golden apple, the swain on Ida
Bestowed on the fairest maid, but he
Would please how few did he dare decide a
Beward for the best of my maidens three.
Which of the three ? their fiuses surely
Are best of books for a man to read ;
When Millicent's eyes look down demurely,
My butterfly gentlemen, pray take heed 1
For ^es of blue, though the dark lash hide them.
Deceive like songs which a syren sings ;
But blue or black let us sit beside them.
And, like the butterflies, bum our wings.
Which of the three ? the long wave hushes
Its Toice in pleasure about their feet;
The seagull stoops, and his white wing brushes
Their golden hair ; on the rooft, their seat,
The sea anemones bloom ; their dresses
The impudent breezes love to toss
In sweet disorder, and toy with tresses
Which tell too truly a ribbon's loss.
Which of the three ? the query's idle,
Twixt dark and &ir, or short and tall.
Would any one choose if he dared to sidle.
And sit a monarch amidst them all ?
A Mormonite tone the ozone instilleth
To those who are happily sumamed ' young;'
For there on the sand, to the man who willeth.
Is a throne three beautiful maids among.
Whichof the three? if I needs must choose one.
To rank all maids in the world above,
I'd take nor care if the world abuse one.
That maid whose attitude whispers lova
And then when summer returned, I*d wander
No more alone by tho dear old sea ;
But all that was best in the world I'd squander
On her— the best of the maidens three.
0. W. S.
128
M. OB N.
* fijfniiiA dnlUbot ourtator.*
By G. J. WHYTE-MKLVILLE,
AUTHOB OF 'DiGBT GbATO/ « CkBIBB,' ' TbM GlADIAT0B8»' STO.
CHAPTER XXEL
' NOT FOB JOSEPH.'
BUT Dick Stanmore was not in a
bansom with Lady Bearwarden.
Shall I confess, to the utter destruc-
tion of his character for undying
constancy, that he did not wish to
be?
Dick had been cured at last--
cured of the painful disease he once
believed mortal — cured by a course
of sanitary treatment delightful in
its process, unerring in its results ;
and he walked about now with the
buoyant step, the cheerful air of one
who has been lightened of a load
lying next his heart.
Medical discoyeries have of late
years brought into Togue a science
of which I have borrowed the motto
for these pages. Similia similibus
curantur is we maxim of homoao-
gathy; and whatever success this
ealing principle may obtain with
bodily ailments, I have little doubt
of its efficacy in affections of the
heart I do not mean to say its
precepts will render us iuTulner-
able or immortal. There are con-
stitutions that, once shaken, can
never be restored; there are cha-
racters that, once outraged, become
Faddened for evermore. The fairest
flowers and the sweetest are those
which, if trampled down, never hold
up their heads again. But I do
M. or N.
;29
meaa, that sboald may or woman
be capable of onre under sofferiogs
origioatiDg in misplaced oon6dence,
anch cure if> moat readily effected
by a modified attack of the same
nature, at the risk of misplacing it
again.
Afber Dick Stanmore's first visit to
the painting-room in Bemers Street,
it was astonishing how enthnsiaatic
a taste he contracted for art He
was never tired of contemplating
his friend's great picture, and Simon
nsed laughingly to declare the
amateur knew every line and shade
of colour in his Fairy Queen as
accurately as the painter. He re-
mained in London at a season which
could have afforded few attractions
for a young man of his previous
habits, and came every day to the
painting-room as regularly as the
model herself. Thus it fell out
that Dick, religiously, superintend-
ing the progress of this Fairy Queen,
found his eyes wandering perpetu-.
ally from the representation' on
canvas to its original on Miss Al-
gernon's shoulders, and gratified his
sense of sight with less scruple, that
from the very nature of her occupa-
tion she was compelled to keep her
head always turned one way.
It must have been agreeable for
Nina, no doubt, if not improving, to
listen to Dick's light and rather
trivial conversation, which relieved
the monotony of her task, and
formed a cheerful addition to the
short, jerking, preoccupied sentences
of the artist, enunciated obviously at
random, and very often with a brush
in his mouth. Nor was it displeas-
ing, I imagine, to be aware of Mr.
Stanmore's admiration, forsaking
day by day its loudly- declared al-
legiance to the Fairy Qaeen in
favour of her living prototype,
deepening gradually to long inter-
vals of silence, sweeter, more em-
barrassing, while far more eloquent
than words.
And all the time, Simon, the
chivalrous, painted on. I cannot
believo but that, with the jealous
instinct of true affection, he must
have perceived the ground slipping
away, hour by hour, from breath
his feet— must have seen the ship
that carried all his cargo sailing
VOL. xvL— HO. xcn.
further and further into a golden
distance to leave him desolate on
the darkening shore. How his
brain may have reeled, and his
heart ached, it is not for me to
speculate. There is a decency of
courage, as there is an extravagance
of bravado, and that is the true
spirit of chivalry which bleeds to
death unmoved, beneath its armour,
keeping the pale knightly fsce
turned calm and constant towards
the foe.
It was a strange trio, that, in the
painting-room. Thegardenof Eden
seems to have been originally in-
tended for two. . The. third was
dpubtlessjan intruder,', and from
that day to this how many a para-
dise has been lost by admittance of
the visitor who completes this un-
even* number, unaccouQtably sup-
posed to be so productive of good
fortune.
Curious, cross purposes were at
work in the three heads grouped
GO near each others opposite the
painter's glowing canvas.-, Dick
perhaps was th^ least perceptive
and therefore the happiest of tho
party. His seme of well-being,
indeed, seekned enhanced by his
previous troubles : like a man who
comes out of the cold into the glow
of a comforting fire, he abandoned
himself wit ^i out much reflection to
the positive enjoyment of pleasure
and the negative solace of relief
from pain.
Simon, always painting, fought
hard to keep down that little
leavening of self which consti-
tutes our very identity. Under
the cold impassive vigour he was
so determined to preserve, he regis-
tered many a noble vow of fortitude
and abnegation on behalf of the
friend he valued, of the woman he
loved. Sometimes a pang would
shoot through him painfully enough
while he marked a change of Nina's
colour, a little flutter of manner, a
little trembling of her hands, and
felt that she was already more af-
fected by the presence of this com-
parative stranger than she had ever
shown herself by his, who had cared
for her so tenderly, worshipped her
so long. Then he bent all his
faculties on the picture, and Iil:c
K
130
M» ot N*
a child rnimiog to seize its mother's
gown, took refnge with his art.
That mistress did not fail him.
She never does M the troe wor-
shipper, who kneels consistently at
her shrine. It is not for her to
scorn the homage offered to-day
becaose it has been offered in faith
and loyalty dnring many a long
past year. It is not for her to shed
on the new votary her sweetest
smiles only becanse he is new.
Woo her frankly, love her dearly,
and serve her faithfally, she will
insnre yon from being cozened out
of your reward. Had she not taken
care of Simon at this period, I
scarcely know what would have be-
come of him.
Nina, too, lived in a golden dresm,
from which it was her only fear that
she must soon awake. Ere long,
she sometimes thought, she must
ask herself, who was this stranger
that brought with him a flood of
sunshine into the homely painting-
room? that steeped for her uncon-
sciously and without effort, every
day in happiness, every morning in
hope? She put off asking the
question, having perhaps a whole-
some recollection of him, who, going
to count his treasure of fairy gold,
found it only withered leaves,
and let herself float with the stream,
in that enjoyment of the present
which is enhanced rather than modi-
fied by miftgivings for the future.
Nina was very happy, that is the
honest truth, and even her beauty
seemed to brighten like the bloom
on a flower, opening to the smile of
spring.
Simon marked the change. How
could ho help it? And still he
painted— painted on.
'There!' exclaimed the artist,
with a sigh of relief, as he stepped
back from his picture, stretcmng
both weary arms above his head.
' At last-at last 1 If I only like
it to-morrow as well as I do now
not another touch shall go into it
anywhere above the chin. It's the
expression I've been trying to catch
for months. There it is I Doubt,
sorrow, remorse, and, through it all,
the real undoing love of the
Well, that's all cant! I mean-
Cant you see, that she likes liim
awfully even now? Kina^ you've
been the making of me, you're the
best sitter in the world, and while
I look at my picture I begin to
think you're the handsomest. I
mustn't touch it again. Stanmore,
what do you think ?'
Absorbed in contemplation of his
work, he pttid little attention to the
answer, which was so far fortunate,
that Dick, in his preoccupation, M-
tered out a string of contradictory
criticisms, flattering neither to the
original nor the copy. Nina indeed
suggested, with some truth, that he
had made the eyebrows too dark,
but this remark appeared to
originate only in a necessity for
something to say. These two young
people seemed unusually shy and
ill at ease. Perhaps in each of the
three hearts beating there before the
picture lurked some vague sus-
picion that its wistful expression
so lately caught may have been
owing to corresponding feelings
lately awakened in the model ; and,
if so, why should not two of them
have thrilled with happiness, though
the third might ache in loneliness
and despair ?
* Not another stroke of work will
I do to-day,' said the artist, affect-
ing a cheerfulness which perhaps
he did not feel. 'Nina, you've got
to be back early. I'll have a half-
holiday for once and take you home.
Put your bonnet on : I shall be ready
in five minutes when I've washed
my hands/
Dick's face fell. He had counted
on a couple more hours at least.
Women, when thev are really dis-
appointed, rarely show it, and per-
haps he felt a little hurt to observe
how readily, and with what apparent
goodwill, Miss Algernon resumed
her out-of-doors attire. He felt
hardly sure of his ground yet,
or he might have begun to sulk in
earnest No bad plan either, for
such little misunderstandings bring
on explanations, reconciliations, de-
clarations, all sorts of vexations,
every day I
Ladies are stanch believers in
luck, and leave much to chance, with
a devout faith that it will serve them
at their need. I imagine Nina
thought it quite in the natural
ILar N.
181
ooone of eTents that a dirty boy
sfaoald enter the icom at this jano-
tnre and deliver a note to Simon^
which called forth all his enemies
and sympathies in a moment. The
note, folded in a hurry, written with
a pencil, was from a brother artist,
and ran thos —
' DxAB Simon,— Gome and see me
if you can. On my back! Two
doctors. Not going to be nibbed
oat, bat beastly seedy all the same.'
'When was he taken ill? Who's
attending him? Anybody taking
oare of him? What o'clock is it
now? Tell him I'll be there in five
minutes.' Simon delivered himself
of these sentences in a breath, and
then glanced from Nina to Dick
Stan more.
' I dare say you woaldn't mind,'
said he. ' I must go to this i)oor
fellow, and if I find him very ill I
may be detained till evening. If
you've time, Stanmore, could yoa
see Miss Algernon as far as the
boat? She'll do yery well then,
but we don't like her to be wander-
ing about London by herself.'
It is possible this idea may have
saggested itself to the persons most
concerned, for all that they seemed
so supremely unconscious, and as if
the arrangement, though a sensible
one and convenient no doubt^ were
a matter of perfect indifference to
tiiemselves.
Dick 'would be delighted/ of
oonrse; though he tried not to
look so; and Nina 'couldn't think
of giving Mr. Stanmore so much
trouble.' Nevertheless, within ten
minutes the two were turning into
Oxford Street in a hansom cab; and
fdthough they said very little, being
indeed in a vehicle which jolted,
swung, and rattled inordinately, I
have not the least doubt they en-
joyed then: drive.
Tbey enjoyed the river steamer,
too, which seems equally strange,
with its narrow deck, its tangible
smoke, its jerks and snorts, and
throbbing vibrations, as it worked
its way against the tide. They had
never before been alone tc^ether,
and the situation, though delight-
ful, was at first somewhat embar-
rassing, because tbey were in ear-
nest The restraint, however, soon
wore off, and with tongues once
loosened there was no lack of matter
for their employment How beauti-
ful, how interesting, how pic-
turesque everything seemed to have
grown all at once: the Hooses of
Parliament— the bridges— tiie dull,
broad surface of the river, grey,
with a muddy tinge— the low, level
banks— the blunt-nosed barges —
their fellow-passengers — the engi-
neer—the boy with the mop— and
the dingy funnel of the steamer
itself.
How mysterious the charm that
lurks in association of ideas!
What magic it imparts to the
commonest actions, the most vulgar
objects of life! What a heartache
on occasions has it not caused you
or me ? One of us cannot see a
woman fitting on her gloves with-
out a pang. To another there is
a memory and a sorrow in the flirt
of a fan, the rustle of a dress, the
grinding of a barrel-organ, or the
slang of a street song. The sting-
ing-nettle crops up in every bed of
flowers we raise; the bitter tonic
flavours all we eat and drink. I
dare say Werther could not munch
his bread and batter for years in
common comfort because of Char-
lotte. Would it not be wiser for us to
ignore the Charlottes of life alto-
gether, and stick to the bread and
butter?
Too soon that dingy steamer
reached its place of disembarka-
tion—too soon, at least, for certain
of its passengers; and yet in their
short voyage up the river each of
these two had passed the portal of a
paradise, through which, amongst
all its gaudy and luxuriant vege-
tation, you may search for the tree
of knowledge in vain. Not a word
was spoken by either that coald
bear the direct interpretation of love-
making, yet each felt that the Ru-
bicon had been passed which must
never be recrossed dry-shod again.
Dick paid his respects, as seemed
but right and proper, to the Misses
Perkins, who voted him an exceed-
ingly agreeable young man; and
this was the more tolerant on their
part that he found very little to
say, and had the good taste to be
X 2
182
M.0rN.
ft Tery short time in saying it
They asked him indeed to remain
for dinner, and, noiwithatanding
their hospitable inclinations, were
no donbt relieved when he declined.
He had gained some experience,
yon see, from his previous worship
of Miss Brace, which now stood
him in good stead, for in affiiirs of
love, as of hononr, a man conducts
his second with more skill and
Bavoir /aire than his first
The world seemed to have
changed by inagic while he went
back to London. It felt like the
breakiog np of a frost, when all is
warmth and softness and vitality
once more. He could have talked
to himself, and laughed aloud for
very joy.
But Nina went to her room, and
cried as she had not cried since she
was a little child, shedding tears of
mingled sweetness and sorrow, rap*
ture and remorse. Her eyes were
opened now in her new-found hap-
piness, and she foresaw the crushing
blow that happiness must inflict
on the oldest, kindest, dearest of
friends.
For the first time in her life she
took herself to task and examined
her own heart. What a joyous
heart it was I And yet how could
she be so inhuman as to admit a
pleasure which must be cruelly
prodactive of another's pain ? Here
was a person whom she had known,
as it were, but yesterday, and his
lightest word or glance ha^ already
become dearer to her than the
wealth of care and afieotion which
tended her from childhood, which
would be about her to her grave.
It was infamous! she told herself,
and yet it was surpassingly sweet!
Yes, she loved this man — this
brown-haired, broad-shouldered Mr.
Stanmore, of whose existence a fort-
night ago she had been perfectly
unconscious, and in that love she
learned to appreciate and under-
stand the affection loyal, true-
hearted Simon lavished on herself.
Was he to be sacrificed to this mere
stranger? Never. Bather she
would sacrifice herself. But the
tears flowed faster to think that it
would indeed be a sacrifice, an
offering up of youth, beauty, hope.
hftppiness for life. Then she dried
her eyes, and went down on her
knesB to pray at her bedside ; and
so rose up, making certain stem
resolutions, which it is only &ir to
state she afterwards kept — ^hke a
woman!
With the view, doubtless, of put-
ting these in practice, she induced
Simon to walk with her on the
lawn after tea, while the stars were
twinkling dimly through a soft,
misty sky, and the lasy nver lapped
and gurgled against the garden
banks. He accompanied her, no-
thing loth, for he too had spent the
last hour in hard painful confiict,
making, also, stern rerolutions,
which he kept—like a man ! ' You
found him better,' she said, alluding
to the cause of his delay in return-
ing home. Tm so glad. If he
hadn't been, you*d have stayed with
him all night, I know. Simon, I
think youVe the best and the kindest
person in the world.'
Here was an opening. Was she
disappointed, or not, that he took
so little advantage of it?
'We must all help each other,.
Nina,' said he; 'that's the way to
make life easy and to stifle sorrows,
if we have them, of our own.'
' You ought never to have a sor-
row,' she broke in. * Ycu, who-
always think of others before your-
self—you deserve to be so happy*
And, Simon, sometimes I think
you're not, and it makes me
wretched; and I'd do anything in
the world to please you ; anything,
if~if it wasn t too hard a task, you
know,'
She had been so eager to make
her Facrifice and get it over that
she hurried inconsiderately to the
brink,~then, like a timid bather,
stopped short, hesitating— the water
looked so cold and dark and deep.
The lightest touch from his hand
would have plunged her in, over-
head. He would have held it in
the fire rather, like the Boman
hero, till it shrivelled into ashes.
'My happiness can never be
apart from yours,' he said, ten-
derly and sadly. 'Yet I think I
know now that yours is not en-
tirely bound up in mine. Am I
right, Nina?'
H. or N.
18S
*I would do aDythiBg in the
world for you— anything/ she mur-
.morod, taking refage, as we all do
at saoh times, in vain repetition.
They had reached the drawing-
room window, and she turned aside,
as if she meant to go in. He took
2ier hand lightly in his own, and
led her back towards the river. It
was very dark, and neither could
read the expression of the other's
lace.
' I have but one earnest desire in
the world,' said he, speaking dis-
tinctly bat very low. ' It is to see
jou happily settled in life. I never
had a sister nor a daughter, Nina.
YovL have stood me in the stead of
lx)th ; and— and I shall never have
awife.'
She knew what he meant The
quiet, sad, yet uncomplaining tone
cut her to the heart ' It's a shame 1
it's a shame!' she murmured.
'Simon, Simon. Tell me; don't
you think me the worst, the most
ungrateful, the most horrible girl
in the world?'
He spoke cheerfully now, and
even laughed. 'Very ungrateful,'
he repeated, pressing her hand
kindly; 'and very detestable, un-
less you tell me the truth. Ninai»
•dear Nina, confide in me as if I was
jour — well — your grandmother I
Will that do? I think there's a
somebody we saw to-day who likes
you very much. He's a good fd-
low, and to be trusted, I can swear.
Don't you tbink, dear, though you
haven't known him long, that you
like him a little — more than a little,
alreadjf?'
' Oh, Simon, what a brute I am,
and what a fool !' answered the girl,
bursting into teara And then the
painter knew that his ship had gone
down, and the waters had closed over
it for evermore. That evening his
aunts thought Simon in better
spirits than usual. Nina, though
«he went to bed before the rest^ had
never found him kinder, more
cheerful, more considerate. He
spoke playfully, good-humouredly,
on various subjects, and kissed the
girl's forehead gravely, almost re-
verently, when she wished him
good-night
It was such a caress as a man
lays on the dead &oe that 6hall
never look in his own again.
The painter slept but little— per-
haps not at alt And who shall
tell how hard he wrestled with his
great sorrow daring those long
hours of darkness, 'even to the
breaking of the day T No angel sat
by his bed to comfort him, nor
spirit-voices whispered solace in his
ear, nor spirit sympathy poured
balm into the cold, aching, omp^
heart; but I have my own opinion
on such matters, and I would fain
believe that struggles and suffer-
ings like these are neither wasted
nor forgotten, but are treasured
and recorded by kindred beings of
a higher nature, as the training
that alone fits poor humanity, then
noblest, when most sorrow rul, to
enter the everlasting gates and join
the radiant legions of heaven.
CHAPTER XXIII.
ANONVMOUS.
Lord Bearwarden finds himself
very constantly on Guard just at
present Her ladyship is of opinion
that he earns his pay more tho-
roughly than any day-labourer his
wages. I do not myself consider
that helmet, cairass, and leather
breeches form the appropriate ap-
pliances of a hero, when termi-
nating in a pair of red morocco
slippers. Nevertheless, in all repre-
sentations purporting to be life-like,
effect must be subservient to cor-
rectness of detail : and such was tiie
costume in which his lordship, on
duty at the Horse Quaids, received
a despatch that seemed to cause
him considerable surprise and vexa-
tion.
The guard coming off was mus-
tering lielow. The relief coming on
was already moving gallantly down
Begent Street, to the admiration of
all beholders. Armed was his
lordship to the teeth, though not to
the toes, for his bfttman waited
respectfully with a pair of high
jack- boots in his hand, and still his
officer read, and frowned, and pulled
his moustache, and swore, as the
saying is, like a trooper^ which» if
184
Jf. W Nm
be had only diaim on his boots,
would not bftTO been so much ont
of cbaraoter at the time.
Onoe again he read it from end
to end ere he ommpled the note in
under his coirasB for fatnre con*
aideration. It lan as £i^owb : —
* My Lobd, — Tour lordship's
manly and generous character has
obtained for joa many well-wishers.
Of these the writer is ooe of the
most sincere. It grieves and angers
him to see yonr lordship's honest
nature deoeiyed, your domestic hap-
piness destroyed, your noble con-
fidence abused. The writer, my
lord, is your true friend. Thoagh
too late for rescue it is not too late
for redress; and he has no power
of communicating to your l(»dship
suspicions which now amount to
certainty but by the means at
present employed. Anonymous let-
ters are usually the resource of a
liar and slanderer; but there is no
rule without, exception; and the
writer can bring proof of every syl-
lable he asserts. If yonr lordship
will use your own eyes, watch and
wait She has deceived others;
why not yout Bemers Street,
Oxford Street, is no crowded tho-
Tougbfiiire. Why should your lord-
ship abstain from walking there any
afternoon between four and five?
Be wary. Watch and wait'
* Blsst his impudence!' muttered
Lord Bearwardeu, now booted to the
thigh, and clattering down stairs to
take command of his guard.
With zealous subalterns, an ex-
perienced corporal-major, well-
drilled men, and horses tbat knew
their way home, it required little
military skill to move his handfal
of cavalry back to barracks, so Lord
Bearwarden came off duty without
creating scandal or ridicule in the
regiment, but I doubt if he knew
exactly what he was doing, till he
amved in plain clothes within a
few paces of his own door. Here
he paused for a few minutes' reflec-
tion before entering his house, and
was surprised to see at the street
corner a lady extremely like his
wife in earnest conversation with a
man in rags who had the appear-
ance of a professional b^:gar. The
lady, as far as he could judge at that
distance, seemed tobeoffering money^
which the man by his actions ob-
vionsly refused. Lord Bearwarden
walked briskly towards them, a good
deal puzzled, and ^ad to have his
attention distracted from his own
albirs.
It was a long street, and the
couple separated before he reaehed
them, the man disappearing round
the comer, while the lady advanced
steadily towards himself. When
within a few paces, she lifted ii
thick double veil and he found he
had not been mistakotL
Maud was pale and calm as usual,
but to those who knew her well,
recent agitation wonld have been
betrayed by the lowering of her
eyebrows, and an unusual compres-
sion of the lines about her mouth.
He knew her better than she
thought, and did not fail to remark
these signs of a recent storm, but, as
usual, refrained from asking for the
confidence it was his right to receive.
' You're out early, my lady,* said
he, in a careless tone. ' Been for an
appetite against luncheon-time, eh ?
That beggar just now didn't seem
hungry at any rate. It looked to
me as if you were offering him
money, and he wouldn't ta^ it
That's quite a new trick in the
trade.'
She glanced quickly in his feoe
with something almost of reproach.
It was a hateful life this, and even
now, she thought, if he would ques-
tion her kindly, she could find it in
her heart perhaps to tell him alL
All ! How she nad deceived him,
and promised herself to another,
and to get rid of that other, only
for a time, had rendered herself
amenable to the law, had been guilty
of actual crime— had sunk to fed
the very slave of a felon, the lowest
refuse of society. How she, Lady
Bearwarden, had within the last ten
minutes been threatened by this
ruffian, been compelled to submit
to his insolence, to make terms with
his authority, and to promise him
another interview that very after-
noon. How every hour of her life
was darkened by terror of his pre-
sence and dread of his revenge. It
M,or N»
186
wasQnheaniof! Unbeamblel She
would make a clean breafit of it on
the first opportunity.
' Let's go in, dear/ she said, with
more of softness and affection than
was hor habit when addressing her
husband. 'Luncheon is almost
ready. I'm so glad you got away
early from barracks. I see so little
of yon now. Never mind. It will
be all right next week. We shall
have two more captains back from
leave to help us. You see I'm be-
ginning to know the roister almost
as well as the Adjutant himself.'
It pleased him that she should
show an interest in these professional
details. He liked to hear such mili-
tary terms of the orderly-room from
those pretty lips, and he would have
replied with something unusually
anectionate, and therefore exceed-
ingly precious, but that, as husband
and wife reached their own door,
they found standing there to greet
them the pale wasted face and at-
tenuated figure of Tom Ryfe.
He saluted Lady Bearwarden
gravely, but with perfect confi-
dence, and she was obliged to give
him her hand, though she felt as if
she could have stnuigled him with
pleasure, then and there, by the
scraper. Her husband clapped him
heartily on the back. ' Glad to see
you, Tom,' Bald he; 'I heard you
were ill and called to inquire, but
they wouldn't let me disturb you.
Been devilish seedy, haven't you?
Don't look quite in form yet Come
in and have some luncheon. Doctors
all tell one to keep up the system
now-a^days.'
Poor Ijidy Bearwarden I Here
was another of her avengers, risen,
as it seemed, from the dead, and she
must speak kind words, find false
smiles, bid him to her table, and
treat him as an honoured guest.
Whatever happened, too, she could
not endure to leave him alone with
Bearwarden. Who could tell what
diBckwures might come out? She
was walking on a mine, so she
backed her husband's invitation,
and herself led the way into the
dining-room where luncheon was
ready, not daring even to go up-
stairs and take her bonnet off before
she sat down.
Mr. Byfe was less communicative
than usual about himself, and spoke
as little to her ladyship as seamed
compatible with the ordinary forms
of politeness. His object was to
lull her suspicions and put her off
her guard. Nevertheless, with pain-
ful attention i^e watched every
glance of his eye, every turn of his
features, hanging eagerly, nervously
on every word he said.
Tom had laid his plan of attack,
and now called on the lately-married
couple, that he might reconnoitre
his ground before bringing up his
forces. It is not to be supposed
that a man of Mr. Rjfe's resources
would long remain in ignorance of
the real truth, after detecting, as he
believed at the time. Lady Bear-
warden and Dick Stanmore side by
side in a hansom cab.
Ere twenty-four hours had elapsed
he had learned the exact state of the
case, and had satisfied himself of the
extraordinary resemblance between
Miss Algernon and the woman he
had resolved to persecute without
remorEC. In this resemblance he
saw an engine with which he hoped
to work her ladyship's utter de-
struction, and then (Tom's heart
leapt within him even now at the
thought), ruined, lonely, desolate,
when the whole world turned from
her, she might leam to appreciate
his devotion, might take shelter at
last with the only heart open to
receive her in her uiame.
It is hard to say whether Tom's
feelings for the woman he so ad-
mired were of love or hate.
He saw through Lord Bearwar-
den's nature thoroughly, for of him,
too, he had made it his busioeBs to
inquire into all the tendencies, all
the antecedents. A high fastidious
spirit, jealous, because sensitive, yet
far too proud to admit, much less
indulge that jealousy, seemed of all
others the easiest to deceive. The
hide of the rhinoceros is no con-
temptible gift, and a certain blunt-
ness, I n?ight say, coarseness of cha-
racter, enables a man to go through
the world comfortably and happily,
unvexed by those petty stings and
bites and irritations that worry
thinner skins to death. With Lord
Bearwarden to suspect was to fret
136
M.tn-N.
and ponder and conceal, haling and
despising himeelf the while. He
had other points, besides his taste for
soldiering, in common with Othello.
On snch a man an anonymous
letter acted like a blister, cliogiog,
drawlDg, inflaming all round the
affected part Nobody in theoiy so
utterly de^^pised these productions.
For nobody in practice did they
produce so disastrous an effect.
And then he had been deceived
once before. He had lost his trust,
not so much in the other sex (for all
men think every woman false but
one), as in himself. He had been
outraged, hurt, humbled, and the
bold confidence, the cUuh with which
such games should be played were
gone. There is a buoyancy gra-
dually lost as we cross the country
of life, which is perhaps worth more
than all the gains of eiperience.
And in the real pursuit, as in the
mimic hurry of the chase, it is wise
to avoid too hazardous a venture.
The hunter that has once been
overhead in a brook never faces
water very heartily again.
Tom could see that his charm was
working, that the letter he had
written produced all the effect he
desired. His host was obviously
preoccupied, absent in manner, and
even flurried, at least for him. More-
over, he drank brown sherry out of
a claret-glass, which looked like
being uncomfortable somewhere
insida Lady Bearwarden, grave
and unusually silent, watched her
husband with a sad wistful air, that
goaded Tom to madness. How he
had loved that pale proud face, and
it was paler and prouder and love-
lier than ever to-day 1
'I've seen some furniture you'd
like to look at, my lord,' said Tom,
in bis old, underbred manner.
' There's a chair I'd buy directly
if I'd a house to put it in, or a lady
to sit on it; and a carved ebony
frame it's worth going all the dis-
tance to see. If >ou'd nothing to
do this afternoon, I'd be proud to
show them you. Twenty minutes'
drive from here in a hansom.'
' Will you come ?' asked Lord
Bearwarden, kindly, of his wife.
' You might take us in the ba-
rouche.'
She seemed strangely agitated by
80 natural a propood, and neither
gentleman fsdled to remark her dis-
order.
' 1 shall like it very much,' she
stammered. *At least I should.
But I can't this afternoon. I—
I've got an engagement at the other
end of the town.*
' Which is the other end of the
town?' said Lord Bearwarden,
laughing. ' You've not told us
your end yet, Tom;' but seeing
his wife's colour fade more and
more he purposely filled Tom's
glass to distract his attention.
Her engagement was indeed of no
pleasant nature. It was to hold
another interview with ' Gentleman
Jim,' in which she hoped to prevail
on him to leave the country by offer-
ing the largest sum of money she
could raise from all her resources.
Once released from his persecutions,
she thought she could breathe a little
and face Tom Ryfe well enough
single-handed, should be try to
poiBon her hust)and*s mind against
nor— an attempt she thought him
likely enough to maka It was Jim
she feared— Jim, whom drink and
crime and an infatuation of which
she was herself the cause, had
driven almost mad — she could see
it in his eye — who was reckless of
her character as of his own— who
insisted on her giving him these
meetings two or three times a- week,
and was capable of any folly, any
outrage, if she disappointed him.
Well, to-day should end it! On
that she was determined. If he
persisted in refususg her bribe, she
would throw herself on Lord Bear-
warden's mercy and tell him the
whole truth.
Maud had more self-command
than most women, and could hold
her own even in so false a position
as this,
' I must get another gown,' she
said, after a moment's pause, ig-
noring Tom's presence altogether
as she addressed her husband
across the table. ' I've nothing to
wear at the Den, if it's cold when
we 'go down next week, so I mmt
call at Stripe and Bainbow's to-day,
and 1 won't keep you waiting in the
carriage all the time I'm shopping.'
•«0io*
M.arN.
187
He seemed qtiite satisfied : ' Then
111 take B^fe to my salking-room/
said he, ' and wish you good-bye till
dinner-time. Tom, you shall have
the best cigar in England — I've
kept them five years, and they're
strong enough to blow your head
off now.'
So Tom, with a formal bow to
Lady Bear warden, followed his host
into a snug but dark apartment at
the back, deyoted, as was at once
detected by its smelly to the con-
sumption of tobacco.
"While he lit a cigar, he could not
help thinking of the days, not so
long ago, when Maud would haye
followed him, at least with her eyes,
out of the room, but consoled him-
self by the reflection that his tarn
was coming now, and so smoked
quietly on with a firm, cruel deter-
mination to do his worst.
Thus it came to pass that before
they had finished their cigars these
gentlemen heard the roll of her
ladyship's carriage as it took her
away ; also that a few minutes later,
Csing Stripe and Rainbow's in a
som cab, they saw the same
carriage, standing empty at the door
of that gorgeous and magnificent
emporium.
'Don't get out, Tom,' said his
lordship, stopping the hansom,
'I only want to ask a question — I
shan't be a minute;' .and in two
s^des be was across the pavement
and within the folding-doors of the
shop.
Perhaps the question he meant to
ask was of his own common-sense,
and its answer seemed hard to
accept philosophically. Perhaps he
never expected to find what he went
to look for, yet was weak enough to
feel disappointed all the same— for
he had turned very pale when he
re-entered the cab, and he lit an-
other cigar without speaking.
Though her carriage stood at the
door, he had searched the whole of
Stripe and Rainbow's shop for Lady
Bearwarden in vain.
Tom R}fe was not without a
certain mother-wit, sharpened by
his professional education. He sus-
pected the truth, recalling the agi-
tated manner of his hostess at
luncheon, when her afternoon's em-
ployment came under notice. Will
it be believed that he experienced
an actual pang, to think she should
have some assignation, some secret
of which his lordship must be kept
in ignorance — that he should have
felt more jealous of this unknown,
this possible rival, than of her law-
ful husband now sitting by his side!
He was no bad engineer, however>
and having laid his train, waited
patiently for the mine to explode at
Its proper time.
' What an outlandish part of the
town we are getting to,' observed
Lord Bearwarden, after several
minutes' silenbe; 'your furniture-
man seems to li?e at the other end
of the world.'
' If you want to buy "things at
first hand you must go into Oxford
Street,' answered Tom. 'Let's
get out and walk, my lord ; it's so
crowded here we shall make better
way.'
So they paid their hansom, and
threading the swarms of passengers
on the footway, turned into Berners
Street arm-in-arm.
Tom walked very slow for reasons
of his own, but made himself plea-
sant enough, talking on a variety of
subjects, and boasting his own good
taste in matters of curiosity, espe-
cially old furniture.
' I wish you could have induced
the viscountess to come with us,'
said Tom; *we should have been
all the better for her help. But
ladies have so many engagement
in the afternoon we know nothing
about, that it's impossible to secure
their company without several days'
notice. I'll be bound her ladyship
is in Stripe and Rainbow's still. '
There was something in the
casual remark that jarred on Lord
Bearwarden, more than Tom's ab-
surd babit of thus bestowing her
fall title on his wife in common con-
versation, though even that pro-
voked him a little too ; something
to set him thinking, to rouse all
the pride and all the suspicion of
his nature. 'The viscountess,' as
Tom called her, was not in Stripe
and Rainbow's, of that he had made
himself perfectly certain less than
half an hour ago; then where could
she be? Why this secrecy^ this
188
M.arN.
mystery, tiiis reterra that had been
growing np between them day by
day ever sinoe their marriage?
What ooneliuion was a man likdy
to arrive at who had lived in the
world of London from boyhood, and
been already once so cmelly de-
ceived? His blood boiled; and
Tom, whose hand rested on his arm,
felt the mosde swell and qniver
beneath his tonoh.
Mr. Byfe had timed his observa-
tion well ; the two gentlemen were
now proceeding slowly np Bemers
Street, and had arrived nearly oppo-
site the hoose that contained Simon's
painting-room, its hard-working
artist, its frequent visitcnr, its beau-
tifal sitter, and its Fairy Qoeen.
Since his first visit there Tom Ryfe,
in person or through his emissaries,
had watched the place strictly
enough to have become familiar
with the habits of its inmates.
Mr. Stanmore's trial trip with
Miss Algernon proved so satis-
&ctory, that the journey had been
repeated on the same terms every
day : this arrangement, very grati-
fying to the persons involved, origi-
nated indeed with Simon, who now
went regularly after work to pass
a few hours with his sick friend.
Thus, to see these two young people
bowling down Bemers Street in a
hansom cab, about five o'clock,
looking supremely happy the while,
was as good a certainty as to meet
the local pot-boy, or the post-
Tom Ryfe manoeuvred skilfully
enongh to bring his man on the
groxmd precisely at the right mo-
ment
Still harping on old furniture, he
was in the act of remarking that
'he should know the shop again,
though he had forgotten the nmuber,
and that it must be a few doors
higher up,' when his companion
started, nttered a tiemendous exe-
cration, and struggling to free him-
self from Tom's arm, holloaed at
an unconscious cabdriver to stop.
' What's the matter ? are you ill,
my lord ? exclaimed his companion,
holding on to him with all his
weight, while afifocting great anxiety
and alarm.
'D ^n you I let me goT ex-
claimed Ixnd Bearwaiden, nearly
flinging Tom to the pavement as
he shook himself free and tore wildly
down the street in vain pursuit.
He returned in a minuto or two,
white, scared, and breathless. Pull-
ing his moustache fiercely, he made
a gallant effort to compose himself;
but when he spoke his voice was so
changed, Tom looked with surprise
inhisfiMO.
' Toa saw it too, TomI' he ssid
at last, in a hoarse whisper.
'Saw itl—saw what?' repeated
Tom, with an admirable sasnmp-
tion of ignorance, innocence, and
dismsy.
'Saw Lady Bearwarden in that
cab with Dick Stanmore 1' answered
his lordship, steadying himself
bravely like a good ship in a breeze,
and growing cooler and cooler, ss
was his nature in an emergency.
'Are you sure of it?— did you
see her £mm? I fancied so myself^
but thought I must be mistaken*
It was Mr. Stanmore, no doubt, but
it cannot possibly have been the
Tisoounteas.'
Tom spoke with an air of gravity,
reflection, and profound concern.
'I may settle with him, at any
rate 1' said Lord Bearwarden. ' Tom,
you're a true friend; 1 can trust
you like myself. It*s a comfort to
have a friend, Tom, when a fellow's
smsshed up like this. I shall besr
it well enough presently ; hut it's
an awful facer, old boy. I'd have
done anything for that woman — I
tell you, anything ! I'd have cut off
my right hand to please her. And
now 1— It's not because she doesn't
care for me — I've known that all
along; but to think that she's like
— ^lil^ those poor painted devils we
met just now. Like them I — she's a
million times worse! Ob, it's hard
to bear ! Damnation 1 I wmH bear
it 1 Somebody will have to give an
account for this!'
'Tou have my sympathy,' said
Tom, in a low respectful voice, for
he knew hie man thoroughly ; * these
things won't stand talking about;
but you shall have my assistance
too, in any and every way you re-
quire. I'm not a swell, my lord«
but I'll stick by you through thick
and thin.'
M.atS.
139
The other preBsed bis arm. ' We
mufit do Bomething at once/ said
he. ' I will go up to banacks now :
eall for me there in an hour's time;
I shall have decided on everything
by then.'
So Lord Bfarwarden carried a
sore heart hack once more to the
old familiar scenes — ^through the
well-known gate, past the stalwart
sentry, amongst all the sights and
sounds of the profession by which
he set snch store. What a mockery
it seemed 1 — how hard, how cruel,
and how unjust 1
But this time at least, he felt, he
should not be obliged to sit down
and brood over his injuries without
reprisals or redress.
CHAPTER XXIV.
PABTXD.
' Lady Bearwarden's carriage had,
without doubt, set her down at
Stripe and Rainbow's, to take her
ap again at the same place after
waiting there for so long a period
as must have impressed on her
servants the importance of their
lady's toilet, and the careful study
she bestowed on its selection. The
tali bay horses had been flicked at
least a hundred times to make them
stand out and show themselves, in
the form London coachmen think so
imposing to passers-by. The foot-
man had yawned as often, express-
ing with each cortortxm an exces-
sive longing for beer. Many street
hojB had la?iBhed tiieir criticisms,
&voarable and otherwise, on the
wheels, the panels, the vamiBh, the
driver's wig, and that dignitary's
1^, whom they had the piesump-
tion to address as 'John.' Diverse
eonnoisseurs on the pavement had
appraised the bay horses at every
conceivable price— some men never
can pass a horse or a woman without
ihinking whether they would like
to bargain for the one or make love
to the other; and theanimals them-
selves seemed to have interehanged
many confidential whispers, on the
anhjeot, probably, of beuis, — when
Lady Bearwarden reappeared, to
aaat herself in the carriage and give
the welcome order, ' Home P
She had passed what the French
call a very * bad little quarter of an
hour,' and the storm bad left its
trace on her pale brow and delicate
features. They bore, nevertheless,
that firm, resolute expression which
Maud must have inherited from
some ironhearted ancestor. There
was the same stem clash of the
jaw, the same hard, determined
frown in this, their lovely descend-
ant, that confronted Pkntagenet
and his mailed legions on the plains
by Stirling, that stiffened under the
wan moonlight on CuUoden Moor
amongst broken claymores and
riven targets, and tartans all stained
to the deep-red hues of the Stuart
with his clansmen's blood.
Softened, weakened by a tender,
doubting affection, she bad yielded
to an ignoble, unworthy coercion;
but it had been put on too hard of
late, and her natural character
asserted itself under the pressure.
She was in that mood which makes
the martyr and the heroine, some-
times even the criminal, but on
which, deaf to reason and insensible
to fear, threate and ai^umente are
equally thrown away.
She had met 'Gentleman Jim,'
according to promise, extorted from
her by menaces of everything that
oould most outrage her womanly
leeliogs and tarnish her fur &me
before the world — had met him
with as much secrecy, duplicity,
and caution as though he were really
the favoured lover for whom she
was prepared to sacrifice home,
husband, honour, and all. The
housebreaker had mounted a fresh
disguise for the occasion, and flat-
tered himself, to use his own ex-
pression, that he k)oked 'quite the
gentleman from top to toe/ Gould
he have known how this high-bred
woman loathed his tawdry oma-
mente, his flash attire, his silks and
velvets, and flushed fiM», and diri^,
ringed hands and greasy hair !
Oould he have knownl He did
know, and it maddened him till he
foi^t reason, prudence, experience,
common sense — forgot everything
but the present torture, the cruel
longing for the impossible, the ae-
cursed conviction ( worse than ail, the
atings of drink and sin and semoise)
140
M.arN.
that this one wild, hopeless desire
of his ezistenoe could never be at-
tained.
Therefore, in the lonely street
to which a cab had brought her
from the shop where her carriage
waited, and which they paced to
and fro, this strangely assorted pair,
he gave vent to his feelings, and
broke out in a paroxysm that
roused all his listener's feelings of
anger, resistance, and disgust. She
had jast offered him so large a sum
of money to quit England for
ever, as even Jim, for whom,
you must remember, every sove-
reign represented twenty shil-
lings' worth of beer, conld not
refuse without a qualm. He hesi-
tated, and Maud's face brightened
with a ray of hope that quivered in
her eyes like sunlight. 'To sail
next week,' said he, slowly; 'to
take my last look of ye to-day.
Them's the articles. My last look,
standing there in the daylight— a
real lady ! And never to come back
no more 1'
She clasped her hands— the deli-
cate gloved hands, with their heavy
bracelets at the wrists, and her
Toice shook while she spoke.
* You'll go; won't you? It will
make your fortune; and— and— I'll
always think of you kindly— and —
gratefully. I will indeed ; so long
as you keep away.'
He sprang like a horse to the lash.
'It's h-llr he exclaimed. 'Put
back your cursed money. I won't
do it I'
'You won't do it?'
There was such quiet despair in
her accents as drove him to fury.
'I wont do itr he repeated in
a low voice that frightened her.
Til rot in a gaol first 1— I'll swing
on a gallows I— I'll die in a ditch I
Take care as you don't give me
something to swing for 1 Yes, you,
with your pale face, and yocr high-
handed ways, and your cold, cruel
heart that can send a poor devil to
the other end o' the earth with a
"pleasant trip, and here's your
health, my lad," like as if I was
goio' across to Lambeth. And yet
vou stand there as beautiful as a
h'aogel; and I— I'm a fool, I am 1
And— and I don't know what keeps
me from sUppin' my knife into that
white throat o' your*n, except it is
as you don't look not a morsel
dashed, nor skeared, you don*t; no
more than you was that first night
as ever I see yoor faca And I
wish my eyes had been lime- blinded
first, and I'd been dead and rotting
in my grave.'
With anything like a contest, as
usual, Maud's courage came back.
' I am not in your power yet/
said she, raising her haughty head.
' There stands the cab. When we
reach it I get in, aed you shall
never have a chance of speaking to
me after to-day. Once for alL
Will you take ' this money, or
leave it? I shall not make the
offer again.'
He took the notes from her hand«
with a horrible oath, and dashed
them on the ground ; then, growing
so pale she thought be must have
fallen, seemed to recover his temper
and his presence of mind, picked
them up, returned them very
quietly, and stood aside on the
narrow pavement to let her pass.
' You are right,' said he in a voice
so changed she looked anxiously in
his white face, working like that
of a msn in a fit '1 was a fool
a while ago. I know better now.
But I won't take the notes, my
lady. Thank ye kindly just the
same. I'll wish ye good momin*
now. Oh, no I Make yourself easy.
I'll never ask to see ye again.'
He staggered while he walked
away, and laid hold of an area
railing as he turned the street
corner; but Maud was too glad to
get rid of her tormentor at any
Erice to speculate on his meaning,
is movements, or the storm that
raged within his breast.
And now, sitting back in her
carriage, bowling homeward, with
the fresh evening breeze in her
face, the few men left to take their
hats off looked in that fiM», and
while making up their minds that
after all it was the handsomest in
London felt instinctively they had
never coveted the ownership of its
haughty beauty so little as to-day.
Her husband's cornet, walking with
a brother subaltern, and saluting
Lady Bearwarden^ or, rather, the
M.ctN.
141
oarriagd and horses, for her lady-
ship's eyes and thoughts were miles
away, expreosed the popular feeling
perhaps with sufficient clearness
when he thns delivered himself, in
reply to his companion's londly-
expressed admiration —
' The hest-looking woman in Lon-
don, no donbt, and the best tnmed
oat Bat I think Bniin's got a
handfdl, yon know. Tell ye what,
my boy, I'm generally right about
women. She looks like the sort
that» if they once hegin to kick,
never leave off till they've knocked
the splinter-bar into toothpicks and
carried away the ^ole of the front
boot/
Mand, all nnconscioas of the
light in which she appeared to this
young philosopher, was meanwhile
hardening her heart with consider-
able mifigivings for the task she
had in view, resolved that nothing
should now deter her from the con-
fession she had delayed too long.
She reflected how foolish it was not
to have taken advantage of the
first confidences of married life by
throwing herself on her husband's
mercy, telling him all the folly,
imprudence, crime of which she
had been guilty, and imploring to
be forgiven. Every day that passed
made it more difficult, particularly
since this coolness had arisen b^
tween them, which, althoagh she
felt it did not originate with her-
self, she also felt a little pliancy on
her part, a little warmth of manner,
a little expressed affection, would
have done much to counteract and
put away. She had delayed it too
long; but 'Better late than never.'
It should be done to-day; before
she dressed for dinner; the instant
she got home. She would put her
arms round his neck, and tell him
that the worst of her miquities, the
most unpardonable, had been com-
mitted for love of him I She could
not bear to lose him (Maud forgot
that in those days it was the coro-
net she wanted to capture). She
dreaded falling in his esteem. She
dared all, risked all, because with-
out him life must have been to her,
as it is to so many, a blank and
a mistake. But supposing he put
on the cold, grave face, assumed
the conventional tone she knew so
well, told her he could not pardon
such unladylike, such unwomanly
proceedings, or that he did not
desire to intrude on confidences so
long withheld; or, worse than all,
that they did very well as they
were, got on — ^he had hinted as
much once before — ^better than half
the married couples in London,
why, she must bear it. This would
be part of the punishment; and
at least she could have the satis-
faction of assuring him how she
loved him, and of loving him
heartily, humbly, even without re-
turn.
Lady Bearwarden had never done
anything humbly before. Perhaps
she thought this new sensation
might be for her good— might make
her a changed woman, and in such
change happier henceforth.
Tears sprang to her eyes. How
slow that man drove; but, thank
heaven 1 here she was, home at last
On the hall-table lay a letter in
her husband's handwriting, ad-
dressed to herself. * How provok-
ing 1' she muttered, ' to say he dines
out, of course. And now I must
wait till to-morrow. Never mind.'
f« Passing upstairs to her boudoir,
she opened it as she entered the
room, and sank into a chair, with a
faint, passionate cry, like that of a
hare, or other weak animal, struck
to the death. She had courage,
nevertheless, to read it over twice,
so as thoroughly to master the con-
tents. During their engagement
they used to meet every day. They
had not been parted since their
marriaga It was the first, literally
the very first, letter she had ever
received from him.
' I have no reproaches to make,'
it said, ' nor reasons to offer for my
own decision. I leave both to your
sense of right, if indeed yours can
be the same as that usually accepted
amongst honourable peopla I have
long felt some mysterious barrier
existed between yon and me. I have
only an hour ago discovered its dis-
graceful nature, and the impossibi-
lity that it can ever be removed.
You cannot wonder at my not re-
turning homa stay there as long
as you please, and be assured I shall
142
ILorJT.
not enter thftt house again. Ton will
not probably wish to see or hold any
communication with me in future,
but should you be so ill-advised
as to attempt it, remember I have
taken care to render it impossible.
I know not how I have forfeited the
right to be treated fairly and on the
square, nor why you, of all the
world, should have felt entitled to
make me your dupe, but this is a
question on which I do not mean to
enter, now nor hereafter. My man
of business will attend to any direc-
tions you think proper to give, and
has my express injunctions to far-
ther your convenience in every way,
but to withhold my address and all
information respecting my move-
ments. With a sincere wish for
your welfiue, I remain,
' Yours, &c.,
' Bea^bwabden/
She was stunned, stupefied, bewil-
dered. What had he found oat?
What could it mean? She had
known of late she loved him very
dearly; she never knew till now
the pain such love might bring.
She rocked herself to and fro in her
agony, but soon started up into
action. She mvaido soTnetking. She
could not sit there under his Tery
picture looking down on her, manly,
and kind, and soldierlike She ran
downstairs to his room. It was all
disordered just as he had left it, and
an odour of tobacco clung heavily
round tibe curtains and furniture.
She wondered now she should ever
have disliked the fumes of that un-
savoury plant She could not bear
to stay there long, but hurried up«
stairs again to ring for a servant
and bid him get a cab at once, to
see if Lord Bearwarden was at the
barracks. She felt hopelessly con-
vinced it was no use; even if he
were, nothing would be gained by
the assurance, but it seemed a relief
to obtain an interval of waiting and
uncertainty and delay. When the
man returned to report that 'his
lordship had been there and gone
away again' she wished she had let
it alone. It formed no light portion
of her burden that she must pre-
serve an appearance of composure
before her servants. It seemed such
& mockery while her heart was
breaking, yes, breaking, in the deso-
lation of her sorrow, the bhink of a
future without htm.
Then in extremity of need she
bethought her of Dick Stanmore,
and in this I think Lady Bearwar-
den betrayed, under all her energy
and force of character, the softer
elements of woman's naturei A man,
I suppose, under any pressure of
affliction would hardly go for conso-
lation to the woman he had de-
ceived. He partakes more of the
wild beast^s sulkiness, which, sick
or wounded, retires to mope in a
comer by itself ;. whereas a woman,
as indeed seems only becoming to
her less firmly-moulded character,
shows in a straggle all the qualities
of valour except that one additional
atom of final endurance which wins
the fight at last. In real bitter dis-
tress they must have some one to
lean on. Is it selfishness that bids
them carry their sorrows for help to
the very hearts they have crushed
and trampled? Is it not rather a
noble instinct of forgiveness and
generosity which tells them that if
their mutual cases were reversed
they would themselves be capable
of affording the sympathy they ex-
pect?
Maud knew that, to use the con-
ventional language of the world in
which they moved, 'she had treated
Dick ill.' We think very lightly of
thcBc little social outrages in the
battle of life, and yet I doubt if one
human being can inflict a much
deeper injury ou another than that
which deprives the victim of all
power of enjoyment, all belief in
good, all hope for the future, all
tender memories of the past Man
or woman, we ought to have some
humane compunction, some little
hesitation in sitting down to play at
that game from which the winner
rises only wearied with unmerited
good fortune, the loser, haggard,
miserable, stripped and beggared
for life.
It was owing to no forbearance of
Lady Bearwarden's that Dick had
80 far recovered his losses as to sit
down once more and tempt fortune
at another table ; but she turned to
him nevertheless in this her hour of
If. or Jr.
148
perplexity, and wrote to ask his aid,
advioe, and sympathy in her great
distress.
I give her letter, though it never
reached its destination, hecanse I
think it illnstrates certain feminine
ideas of honour, jnstioe, and plain
dealing which must originate in
some code of reasoning totally nn-
intelligible to ourselves.
'DsAB Mb. Stakmorb,— You are
a true friend I feel sure. I have
always considered tou since we have
been acquainted, the truest and most
tried amongst the few I possess.
Tou told me once, some time ago,
when we used to meet oftener than
we have of late, that if eyer I was
in sorrow or difficulty I was to he
sure and let you know. I am in
sorrow and difficulty now— great
sorrow, overwheloiing difficulty. I
have nobody that cares for me
enough to give ad?ice or help, and
I am so very, very sad and desolate.
I think I have some claim upon you.
We used to be so much together
and were always such good Mends.
Besides, we are almost relations, are
we not? and once I thought we
should have been something more.
But that is all over now.
' Will jou help me ? Gome to me
at once, or write. Lord Bearwarden
has left me without a word of ex-
planation except a cruel, cutting,
formal letter that I cannot under-
stand. I don't know what I have
said or done, but it seems so hard,
so inhuman. And I loved him very
dearly, very. Indeed, though you
have every right to say you don't
believe me, I would have made him
a good wife if he had let me. My
heart seems quite crushed and
broken. It is too hard. Again I
ask you to help me, and remain
always
' Yours sincerely,
' M. Bbabwaedbh.'
There is little doubt that had Dick
Stanmore e^er received this touch-
ing production he would have lost
not one moment in complying with
the urgency of its appeal. But Dick
did not receive it» for the simnle
reason that although stamped by
her ladyship and placed in the lei-
ter-box, it was never sent to the post
Lord Bearwarden, though absent-
ing himself from home under such
unpleasant circumstances, could not
therefoxe shake off the thousand
imperceptible meshes that bind a
man like chains of iron to his own
domestic establishmeni Amongst
other petty details hia correspond-
enoe had to be provided for, and he
sent directions accordingly to his
groom of the chambers that all his
letters should be forwarded to a cer-
tain address. The groom of the
chambers, who had served in one or
two fiBunilies before, of which the
heads had sefMurated under rather
discreditable circumstances, misun-
derstanding his master's orders, or
determined to err on the safe side,
forwarded all the letters he could
lay hands on to my lord. There-
fore the hurt and angry husband
was greeted, ere he had left home a
day, by the sight of an envelope in
his wife's handwriting addressed to
the man with whom he believed she
was in love. Even under such pro-
vocation Lord Bearwarden was too
high-minded to open the enclosure,
but sent it back forthwith in a slip
of paper, on which he calmly ' pre-
sented his compliments and begged
to forward a letter he could see was
Lady Bearwarden's that had fallen
into his hands by mistake.'
Maud, weeping in her desolate
home, tore it into a thousand shreds.
There was something characteristic
of her husband in these little honour-
able scruples that cut her to the
heart.
'Why didn't he read it?' she re-
peated, wringing her hands and
walking up and down the room.
' He knows Mr. Stanmore quite well.
Why didn't he read it? and then
he would have seen what I shall
never, never be able to tell him
nowl'
•^s'^^^^
lU
SUMMEE DAYS AMONG THE WHITE MOUNTAINS
A SIX hours' ride by rail from
BofitoD, MASsacbnsettB, brings
yon to the borders of one of thoee
lovely lakes which are so frequent
and so essential in that rich and
wild scenery which prsTails in
America. Lake Winnepiseogee —
such is its aboriginal and tongue-
torturing name— lies almost at the
foot of the range of mountains
which is the favourite sojourning
place of those New England fnshion-
ables who prefer the mountain air
to the sea-oreeze, and who find a
deeper pleasure in wandering in
* the forest primeval— the murmur-
ing pines and the hemlocks/ than
in listening to the ' perpetual
laughter of the dimpling sea-
waves/ The journey, indeed, from
the city to the lake is not devoid
of interest; the curious English
sojourner among his Yankee cou-
sins— may they always be cousinly,
these two — will not fiiil to find,
both on the road and at the trip's
end, scenes and things worth noting
in that inevitable note-book which
marks the true tourist -spirit
Northern Massachusetts has not a
little to boast of in rich and varie-
gated landscape: fine farm hinds;
broad sweeping meadows; wide
slow-flowing rivers; great whistling
forests; and hill and dale merging
gently into each other, and bearing
on their bosom the fruit of the
husbandman's thrift and the Yan-
kee's energy. Anon you whirl
through great manufacturing towns
with their palatial mills and huge
whizzing wheels, and buzzing, bee-
like population; passing abruptly
from the spectacle of the conquest
of earth to that of mechanical ele-
ments.
If you are so happy as to make
the trip on one of those 'perfect
days of June,' when the blue above
is boundless and fathomless, and
the green below is darkest, freest,
newest to outer earth — ^meeting far
off there in the horizon, and di-
viding for us everywhere the scope
of sight— if you have such a day,
the manufacturing towns are apt to
be rather in the way — too de-
structive of the seducing illusion
of the country, its air, sounds, and
sights. You leave Lowell, and with
it the last of thoee painftilly vivid
reminders that you live in a world
of toil and hard, grating, practical
cares and thoughts. The sloping
hills and minute culture change
into loftier ranges and rude declivi-
ties; finally, gradoally, the lower
spurs of the White Mountains
come into sight. Of Lake Winne-
piseogee I, at least, cannot speak
without enthusiasm. If you see it
first, as I did, under the canopy
of great dark rolling clouds, dark-
ening, in places, alike mountain
landscape and lake surface, it is
grand and beautiful: not the less
BO that the crests of the majestio
hills are encircled by swaying and
uncertain vapours. Perhaps there
is no season when a lake landscape
is so picturesque as when a long
and heavy storm has just exhausted
itself, and the rolling clouds, now
lighter and wreathing themselves
gracefully, wind into fiutastic
shapes and momentary festoons
about the slopes and over the
valleys — the valleys and hill-sides
meanwhile catching here and there
a gleam of sunlight, illumining
here and there a farmhouse or a
wheat field, while all about is
dimmed. And such an effect yon
may often see on this gem of a
mountain lake, Winnepiseogee. (Let
me hope that the name — which, if
you can only teach yourself to pro-
nounce it, is really a musical one —
will not frighten the romance of the
scene from the imagination of my
lady readers.)
Old Winnepiseogee is some twenty
or thirty miles long, and irregular
in width; tradition of the farmers
apprises us that it contains just
three hundred and sixty-five islands
— one for each day in the year; and
it has been said that in leap-year an
additional fedry island makes its ap-
pearance in the midst of the waters,
visible, however, only by moon-
light Banges of mountains are on
almost every side; to the north-
ward rises the stately range of the
Summer Days among the WhUe Mountains.
145
White Monniaiiui proper, their
snowy tops easily distingnished
firom the gray and green hae of
tiieir lesser brothers. The islands
in the lake aie mostly exceedingly
heantifdl, thick with the wild, care-
lessly graceful fbliage characteristic
of American scenery, abounding
sn rich nncaltnred fruits, contain-
ing loyel^ little coyes and pic-
turesque jutting promontories, and
natural alcoves and grottoes inimi-
table by the art of man. The
middle of June sees the swarms
of tourists flocking to the lake,
across it, and beyond to the moun-
tain resorts. Eoyiable to those
who have to stay in the city and
plod are these merry groups— for
right merry are tiiey, infected by
the rural air and lovely scene,
albeit children of Puritan Pilgrims
— who are so lucky as to get away
to witness these august and beau-
tiful testimonies to the goodness of
God.
Frocul a ntgotiis, your pros-
perous man of business, who,
tboughH Yankee-sharp at a trade,
no doubt, can reaUy be a jolly
fellow when free from the per-
plexities of his counting-room, re-
tires to lake and mountain, and
spends the long summer months in
the countless pursuits of pleasure,
which have only one drawback —
that you find it so hard which of
them to choose. Better still, fax
from the heat and weariness of
jashionable slavery, the young
Kew England damsels escape to
these retreats, where they may live
and grow rosy once more over the
hearty count^ fare, with its honey
and fresh milk, its homely bread
and fruits, its local culinary tri-
umphs and harmless beverages.
Here is health for them, the poor
jaded creatures, become languid
from the exhausting winter cam-
paign of fiekshion; from these hills
uid lakes they may drink in new
life, and derive merry spirits once
more. Who is not there, on the
neat little steamboat, as it carries
you and me over the placid waters
of Lake Winnepiseogee ? Are you
a student of human nature, you
may indulge that pet occupation to
your hearrs content, at the same
VOL. xvL— Ko. xon.
time that you refresh yourself with
the mountain breezes and your
eyes with the countless littie islands
and the sloping lake-shore. Every-
body—at least the representatives
and types of everybody— are there
before us. The typical Pater£Br
milias, in a constant state of anxiety
about the luggage, which he has to
keep a 'sht^ look-out on;' while
he nas at the same time to carry
shawls and stools and what not
from one end of the deck to the
other and back again, and acts as
waiter-general to his exacting party
of daughters and nieces; Pater-
fiunilias is there, many times re-
peated. Sporting young gentie-
men, all leggings and bobcoats, idl
straps and fishing tackle, are there ;
fitshionable fops, in fiiultless attire,
dividing their time between re-
sisting the propensity of stray par-
ticles of dust to &sten on them,
and lisping platitudes to the bevy
of girls by the flag-pole— they are
th^ too, plenty and various; of
course the man who ' can tell you
all about this r^ion' is there, a
walking guide-book, who can nar-
rate wonderful things about every
little nook and comer throughout
the trip, who has travelled over
the route a marvellous number of
times, and, before the journey is
over, has established himself on
intim te terms with everybody on
the boat; there are shoals of artists,
savagely hirsute, discussing points
of view, and backgrounds, and
colour effects, and niaking sudden
discoveries of ' eligible ' landscapes,
which they all tip over their h^kLs
and squint at; there are dry-as-
dust lawyers, and sleek parsons
with oily voices and weak lungs,
and prosperous doctors telling hor-
rible stories, and paternal school-
masters with shoals of boys whom
thoy are taking to the mountains on
botanical or geological enieditions.
There is flirting, and reading, and
eating, and smoking, and sketching,
and shrill 'OhsT at the scenery,
natty travelling suits, and littie .
flat sun-hats, much like those you
see on the Bhine or in the Alp?.
The luggage is piled up on ue
lower deck, and every modem
travelling appliance is discoverable
L
146
Ddjfi amomg&e WhUe
in the ndgfaboiufaood of the tomr-
istB. One nman why audi aa
exconkm is peenliatly plo—nt is,
that everybody m sociable, and
quite zeady to get awpminted with
ererybodT elae. Mo qneationa aaked
aboat pedigree, extaat of pone, Aie.
Every Eogliahaiaa who haa tnir
veiled in Ameriea will tell yoa
bow readily acqnainteaoe is to be
made on lines of public travel;
indeed, more than one haa com-
plained that hand-shaking and sad-
den finendshipe are rather too
prevalent in the States. But it is
erring, at least, on the genial side.
So it is that onr nuseeUaaeona
group of paraengess on board the
prat^ little WinnepiseogBe steam-
boat are, before uie two boon'
joomey across the lake is over, on
the easiest and pleasantest terms
possible; lan^ung and talking
with each other witii as litfle cere-
mony as if they were each and all
a fiimily party. It wiU be strange
if elaborate plans have not beoi
matured to meet each other in the
mountains and to make pio-nie or
berrying ezcursionB among the
forests and along the river-sides
which abound there, and are so
well adapted to these pastimes. At
the upper end of the lake the hills
have become more lofty, and the
cool, dry mountain air has become
more perceptible and refreshing.
We land at the little pier and walk
up a knoU to the old-fiashioned inn
(there are such still even in new
America), with its long verandah
running ak)Dg its front and afford-
ing a chazming view of the lake.
S(»ne, however, do not go as &r as
the end of the steamboat's journey.
Many of the islands of the lake
ate large enough to be inhabit-
able ; some are a mile or two long
and half a mile wide, and are the
residences of hardy New England
farmers. Nearly all of these &nners
are quite willing to receive
boarders; and, to him who has
come off purposely to get away
from society, and desires, above
all things, rustic tranquillity and
aquatic sports, nothings can be more
charming than to take up an abode
at one of these island fiurmhouses.
Th^y all have boats in plenty, and
fishing-tackle, which, if less
plicated and ornate than that wfaiek
IS dtj-bongfat, is found to be quit»
as efBactoal for pnctical purpesaar
Some of the fyrmers, antidpaterj
of guests, have bialt ninepm aUe^
at the watisMBde, and have cleaBsd
pleassat little umbiageous copses
for oaniature pie-nics; and oftem
during the summer parties of vil-
lagers from the opposite shoio
come over by boatsfdl to danoe^
row, sing, and feast beneath the
shady expanse and on the water.
It must be remembered that there
is everywhere so much room m
America that there is no restriction
whi^ver either in fishing, or hunt-
ing, or wandering whithersoever
one lists over £he forests sad
through the fields. So yoa are
careful not to tread down the
wheat, or crush the vines, you are
perfectly free to go and come, with
no permission to ask, and no bailifb
or house-dogs to fear. A more
delightful life than this m the
island fiumhouse it is hard to
imagina One feels a sense of
freedom nowhere else experienced.
Tou may take your gun, and wan-
der from (me end of the island to
the other, unmolested, and only
hearing the country sounds and
buzzing which is so grateful to the
city denizee. You may fish, or
row, or swim, or lounge and read,
wheal and where you wilL You
may take a boat, and make Crusoe-
like vovages of discovery to the
hundred neighbouring little islands
scattered near, or have an im-
promptu lunch of fried fish and
roast potatoes on the smooth sand
of the many lovely little coves.
You may either philosophize, study,
or refuse to think altogether. Tito
accommodations of the farmhouse
are not elegant, but they abound
in homely comforts; the good foiik
are rouffh and plain, but kindly;
the food is iresh and pure, well
cooked, and plenty of it In such
a life the summer but too rapidly
slides away ; and the only regret is
to tear one's self away when the
time of departure has arrived.
In the fresh, crisp, early mominff
air, the dew yet glistening on pm
and blade, the okL-fiiduoBed st^ge-
Summer Daif$ amonj ike White Mountain.
147
coach (thexe axe these, too, oh,
Conservatiye reader, in lepublican
American whirls np in front of the
hotel, ana those who are going for-
ward to penetrate to the midatof
the moantain region bnstle about
to get their luggage aboard, and to
seeare seats for iuemselTes. It is
so early that oar fops are drowefy,
and oar damsels hare reddish eyes,
and hair not too minutely combed;
but soon the soeDe becomes liyely,
and cheery laughter rings out, and
tiiore is a good-natured struggle for
the tip-top seats. The boys are apt
to contend for the seats next the
dxiyer— that ineyitable oracle, and
peculiar philoeopher, friend, and
wonder of boys eyerywhere. Th&
young ladies are by no means too
squeamish to take places on the
trunks and boxes on the roof of the
coach, the more nSgligS and informal
eT»7thing is the better. The
journey is to be a long one~HK>me
six or eight hours— and so there are
innumerable baskets and hampers
of proyisions, bottles of currant and
gooseberry wine, whfle the young
men hare ample supplies of cigars,
meeischaum pipes, and pouches of
'fine-eut cavenaish.' llie sceneiT
through which our great stEhge-coach
rumbles, to the sound of the crack-
ling whip and the marry harness-
bells, is really peculiar to America ;
and one who has not been there can
hardly form an idea of its contrast
with any scenery discoverable in
Europei The brilliant effect of a
storm just passed, already spoken
of as enhancing the beauty of the lake
landscape, is also discoYcred in the
mountam landscape. When all is
dear, and the storm has just left a
bright glistening green tmge upon
the whole scene, and tiie peaks of
the mountains, now hue, cluster
around you, bcnmding the horizon,
the view is one certunly not to be
surpassed in loreliness, although
Alp and Tjieooe may excel it in
TBstneas and grandeur. Then there
is infinite variety in ihis landscape
thrCQgh which you nass between
the lake and the high mountains.
Sometimes you whirl through a thin
fbrest, its trees uniform and wide
apart, and the gromid fiorly covered
with ite short fiat bush of the blue-
berry^the peculiar and delicious
fruit of the region, now just getting
ripe— a fruit, most like, perlu^ps,
the whortlebeny, but flGir nicer, and
having no counterpart in any Eu-
ropean {>roduction. This berry, let
me say in passing, is as large as a
very large pea, and is of a beautiful
very light blue colour; its pulp is
white and sweet, and it is a great
favourite throughout New England.
It is made into pies, puddings, and
cakes, and never fails to enrich
whatever dish it forms a part of.
Anon, to resume the journey, you
emerge into a wide, square, flat
meadow plain, closing abruptly on
either side at the foot of the moun-
tains, not gradually sloping up to
them. In its midst, a bxoaa, wmd-
ing river slowly flows ; on its bosom,
here and there, are bDautiful flelds
of wheat or maize. Above it are
often ledges of great height. These
ledges, in America, are the castles
built by nature to supply, in the
landscape, the place of the feudal
castles of Europa On one of them,
in this journey which we desoribe, is
to be seen a distinct resemblance to
a white horse, formed by the strata
of the rock. This is a curious ob-
ject to the tourists, and is named
the 'White Horse Ledge.' There
are also, in the same vicinity, several
pretty little lakes, nestling near the
ledges, which produce remarkable
echoes among other attractions.
The ledges and rock of this region
are mostly composed of granite; and
New Haznmhire, the State which
boasts the White Mountains,is there-
fore named the ' Granite State.'
The stage-coach, after a glorious
journey of some eight hours, brings
us to a charming village, lying in
the midst of the broad vaUey of the
Saco, midway between the mountain
ranges on either side, which bears
the good old English name of
Conway. Here it is relieved of
many of its passengers; for Gon-
wav is one of the best and most
ftshionable White Mountain resorts.
Along the wide and shaded road
you will espy some half a dozen
spacious and most comfortable-look-
ing hotels; and about them all is
the prosperous appearance of a brisk
season, fcft everywhere you see the
- I. a
148
Summer Day$ among ike While Mcuniaine.
pleasureHseekers going to and fro,
standing in groups or playing oat-
door games. On either side pretty
roads branch off, stadded here and
there with neat fJEtrmhooses with
porches and lawns, and shaded
by noble chestnnts and elms, the
few snrviyors of ' the forest prim*
eyal/ You may take yoor choice,
eiUier to make your abode at the
hotel, surrounded by a city colony,
which still keeps up here all the
fashionable customs, or to secure
board at one of the farmhouses,
which haye all been made ready for
yisitors, and where you may enjoy
tranquillity with the advantage of
going down to the hotels, and
plunging into 'sociefy' wheneyer
you may happen to feel so inclined.
The life in the hotel is, despite the
toilets and fashionable exigencies, a
merry one. Somehow or other the
ladies manage to unite the two in a
manner most adroit and skilful.
As I said before, eyery one is soon
acquainted with eyery one else, and
this makes the contrast between
this American mountain resort and
those of Germany and Switzerland
yery striking. It soon gets to be
like a counter hoase full of a great
and yarious family gathering. The
yotmg ladies and young gentlemen
haye all got togeUier, haye found
their 'affinities,' and loye-making,
either in a light or a desperate
fashion, liecomes the main occupa-
tion of the young portion of the
guests. The elders haye also be-
come easy with each other, and talk
politics or stocks, play chess or
whist, compare fashions, or gossip
about the new arrivals quite as per-
sistently as if they were at home.
How shall I describe the infinite
amusements, old and newly-in-
yented, which serve to steal time
away from the pleasure-seekers, and
to draw the summer away from
under their feet without their know-
ing it? In the unrestricted freedom
of the country there are, of course,
many wanderings over the vast and
velvety meadows, and in among the
tall yellow wheat-ears. Of course
the motmtains must be climbed,
and views taken of the valleys ; then
crinoline must be discarded, and
broad, flappy sun-hats donned; and
there is infinite fun in creeping up
the rooky paths, meademoiselles
having plentiful assistance from the
arms and hands of their gallants.
Often these moxmtain excursions
have another object— the fiiscinating
one of picking the blueberries.
These grow in wonderful luxuriance
on the craggy mountain sides, and
it is really great fim to be of a party,
supplied with baskets and pails,
who spend the day gathering them,
stopping now and then to talk and
laugh and joke, and to sit under
some wide-spreading tree to deyour
the lunch which has been brought,
and for which the berry-picking and
mountain-climbing has given a rare
zest Sometimes the fun is inter-
rupted by an unwelcome guest-
unwelcome, at least, to the timid
excursionists of the gentler sex.
' Those horrid snakes ' are truly the
abcHninatiQU of your young lady
who seeks her pleasure among the
mountuns. Then, when one of
these reptiles, which are not un-
common there, thrusts his ugly fiBuoe
among the company, there is much
screaming and ado, tendencies to
faint away, which necessitate mas-
culine support, while the gallant
youths rejoice to display their valour,
and zealously engage in following
up the intruder, and laying his life-
less form, a trophy, before their ad-
miring but frightened companions.
And what an Elysium is this moun-
tain region to your practised sports-
man I As far as ms legs can carry
him he may roam, day after day,
gun on shoulder, fearing no pro-
Erietor of the soil, and with limit-
ss game on every hand.
Here, too, among these yast fo-
rests, and along these broad rivers
which are among the * White HUls,'
is a rich field for the ardent disciple
of old Izaak Walton. The woods
are replete with little narrow gurg-
ling brooks, and these brooks abound
in trout, fat and shiny in their pros-
perous solitude. You may take
your pole, basket, and fiy, and stroll
up through the brush, and through
the shady dells, all day long, with
plenty of game and no interruption.
Prefer you river fishing for perch
or roach, lake fishing for pike and
lake-trout? Here it is, then, un-
Summer Days among the White Momtains.
149
limited, at your hand, and, are you
only an expert angler, yon may each
day retom to your farmhonse or
hotel laden with treaanreB unstinted
for breakfast or dinner delectation.
There is in the White Monntains
occasionally rarer and fiercer sport
than this. Eyen in this long- settled
part of America— for New Hamp-
shire was colonized early in the
seTenteenth centoiy—- there is occa-
sionally a black bear discovered,
some solitary descendant of the an-
cient hairy lords of the domain.
When such an eyent occurs there is
excitement of y eneiy indeed 1 Parties
sconr the monntains and dells for old
Bruin, and he is, perhaps, bronght
down after a hearly struggle, not
without its dangers. Partridges,
pigeons, and quails are seemingly
inexhaustible there in their season.
Often parties of adyenturous fel-
lows ^nll take gun and hamper,
start out, and be gone seyeral days
among tiie solitfiffy wilds of the
mountains. They provide them-
selves with canvas, and when they
have reached a &vourable spot,
many miles from any habitation —
likely enough some little open space
in the midst of the thick forest, or
cm the bank of some tumbling and
splashing mountain stream — they
pitch tbdir tents, set up their tri-
pods, lay their blankets, and after
ei^ying a rare sport by day, cook
their dinner at dusk from its pro-
ceeds, and smoke, drink, sing, and
play cards, by the light of tbe blazing
fire which th^ have built before
their tenta Such a life, if the rain
only holds off, is glorious and joy-
ous, as I can testify from a debght-
fnl experience.
Meanwhile, at the hotels, the
young ladies and the stay-at-home
young gentlemen indulge in more
quiet and more fashionable amuse-
ments. If you pass along tire vil-
lage street at night— and what glo-
riously clear and limpid nights tibey
are there !— from ahnoet every house
there comes out a sound of music
and revelry. Dancing whiles away
the short summer evenings, and
bands have been imported from the
dty for the purpose. Sometimes it
is varied by those household games
which New England has inherited
from Old Ensland; something is
ceriain to be done to make the even-
ing fly away on win^^ Croquet
and velocipedes are the order of
the day, every hotel being pro-
vided with the implements of the
former game. Pio-nics are frequent,
and, amidst this grand scenery, and
under this welcome shade, and be-
side these roaring streams, pic-nics
are in their perfection. How pleasant
to dance under the lofty oaks, fanned
by soft, cool mountain breezes ! How
refreshing is the luncheon of currant
wine, cold chicken, sandwiches, and
cake, dealt out by delicate female
hands, amid merry laughter and in-
finite joking! Then there is the
wandering m couples among the
trees, the cosy taJk in the quiet
nook, the berry-picking, the poetry-
reading, the sketch-drawing, and
the * silent meditation, fancy firee.'
So let all wanderers in America,
who would fain avoid wilting at the
more fashionable watering-places,
hie them to this lovely mountain re-
gion, tiiere to find robust health, and
pleasures as substantial as Uiose
described.
Gboboe Maejbpeaob Towlk.
160
CROSS PUEPOSES.
CHAPTER L
EARLY in the perfoct aatomn
moniing, when the gossuiier-
webs^ dew-spangled, eovered tiie
mofissB and roadside weeds, and
the gone on Hie upland ; nnder the
beedbes, whose leaves weie just be-
ginning to change and to &11, to
flutter down slowly and BoSUy, even
without wind; 0]^M)aite a small
window, in an otherwise blank and
thickly-ivied wall, she paused and
hesitated.
Perhaps ten minutes — perhaps
twenty— she stood there, looking
intently at a letter she held, only
Btndying the address of it— and
thal^ too, written by her own hand.
Nobody passed; nothing dis-
turbed her : a squirrel was rostling
the boughs above her head, and
small birds e^ her from out the
ivy; but there she stood, till, at
last, a footstep of some one coming
down towards her from the higher
part of the village roused her: then
she crossed the road, put her letter
into the slit in the window, and
began to walk fast in the opposite
direction from that whence came
the footstep.
Hurry as she might, she was soon
overtaken. A hand rested on her
shouldjer, lightly yet firmly, and
quite as if it had a right to rest
there if it chose.
' Edith 1 you used to say you al-
ways could tell my footstep from
any other; in the few days I've
been away from the island have you
forgotten it?'
' I did not say I could not do so
now.'
The girl spoke sharply, still hur-
rying on, wi&out looking up.
'My child!' bending forward to
look her more fully in the face,
'what is the matter with you?
This is a queer reception. What is
the matter with you ?*
* "Why should there be anything
the matter with me ?'
* You are looking ill.'
•I'm tired.'
' Take my arm— why do you walk
sofju?
' I wanted to post a letter my-
seHl'
'Take my aim. 1\>whom?'
' To my oourin Gertrude.'
She looked him in thefiicenow.
A handsome, honeat iiEu», with grey
^yes, and a goldenrbrown beard and
moustache, veiy brilliant in the
goldm sunshine that fell tiirough
the golden boughs ; so brilliant that
she flOQsi looked down again.
'Why don't you take my arm?'
Ln an ill-used, wondering iooe,
' I would rather not'
Sudden tears dropped down as
she remembered she did not mean
to have the right to claim it
any 'nK»re. Remembering this, she
clasped it now, with both hiinds,
suddenly, passionately: she was
very mudi of a child stall.
'That is right!' and the grey
eyes — warm grey— shone down upon
her contentedly. ' Now about your
cousin Gertrude : had you anything
very particular to tell her that you
chose to post your letter yonzsefr?'
' Yes; I have asked her to come
and stay wiiii me : your mother has
promised her a month's holiday; I
have asked her to spend it with
me.'
' I am sorry for that'
His fifice flushed and his brows
contracted.
' You need not be.'
' I am the best judge of that, my
child. I have my reasons, Edith,
and I am sorry, very sorry.'
'Perhaps I know more of your
reasons than you fsbucy.'
He turned an inquiring look upon
her, but she looked away. They
were both silent after that a good
while. She kept her eyes bent upon
the ground. She knew each bit of
the road well: she was calculating
time and distance. She said to her-
self ' When we come to the great
hazel-bush, I will leave hold of his
arm and speak;' meanwhile sho
clasped the arm very close.
He spoke first : a sudden turn in
the road showed them, between
arching boughs of crimson and
Orou Pttrpaet*
151
golden beecheB, the flashing blne-
11688 of an early monung sea lying
Ux below, dotted here and tiieze
with a 8iK>w-white saiL
'What a perfBct moniingl what
a perfect soene!' he said, pausing,
and then recited the exquisite yerses
from 'In Memoriam/ beginning—
* Calm te the mem, witbont a loaiil'
She repeated, softly—
'If mj aim, a calm deqwlr/
let herself linger leaning on him a
few moments, then snatched her
hand from his arm, choking with
the thought, ' It will never be there
again V looked before and after, and
said—
' I am near home now, and I have
a few words to speak to you first'
She leant back against the low
wall, and tried with all her might
to calm herself, that he might not
see how much she was agita
She snoceeded only too well: her
soft dark cheek lost its bloom,
tomed yellowish-white; but she
looked prond and sullen, rather
than scNTrowful.
He pansed before her, fall of
wcmder at her changed manner— at
her dry, haid, nngirlish tone of
voice.
'Yon haye often said I did not
loye you,' she began. ' I am going
now to confirm all the eyil yon
have ever thought of me. I wish
to break our engagement: I wish to
be free from you, and to set you
firae from me.'
He was silent some moments:
she tzied to look at him, but fiuling,
kept her eyes upon the faHea beech-
masts, which she stirred with her
foot.
' WhaVs the meaning of this ?
Whai he spoke, he spc^e so
sternly that she felt a&aid.
'I haye tried to speak plainly,'
she said. 'I wish to be free, to
marry any one else' (if he had un-
deistood the inflection of her yoico,
he would haye learnt frcnn it that
in the world there was none else for
her), 'or to remain single; and I
wish you to be firae to marry some
one elso—arane one who will loye
you better than I do.* (That same
inflection of the yoice.) ' I know
now that I oould not be ba|^y aa
your wife, and that you would ncyt
be happy as my husband.'
His oolour had risen angrily ; he
kicked some stones from under his
feet with an energy that sent them
spinning far down the road.
' I haye, I think, some slight right
to an explanation,' he said— his
yoioe was not steady,—^' oonsideriDg
that in a few months you were to
haye been What did you say?*
(She had echoed 'were to haye
been.')
'Nothing,' she answered: 'go
on.'
' Considering that in a few months
you were to haye been my wife;
considering that tiie last six months
haye been passed by me in preparing
to receive you as my wifa^
' Your notion of fit prepacation to
receive me as your wife seems to
me a strange one!* she cried, pas-
sionately; and then repented this
utterance. He had caught the
words, and paused upon them.
'What does this mean? Who has
been tampering with you? Who
has been exciting your jealousy ?'
' If I am jealous, you are well rid
of ma A jeidous woman is an
accursed thing— I've heard you say
so yourself- from which ;^ou should
be glad to escape.'
' A jealous woman u an accursed
thing. But in you, Edith, I have
never yet seen a sign of this disease.'
' Then don't be too ready to be-
lieve me easily taintod by it Look
into your own heart, tiid find a
cause for what I do.'
'No man,' he said, 'in my
opinion, was ever worthy of any
good woman's love; that I de-
voutly believe; but further *
' It is no use to talk it over. I
know of old erpGneaee you can
make me say black's white. I haye
said what I mean to abide by, and
so I shan't listen fcnr your answer.
I have spoken roughly, rudely,
coarsely; but I have spoken as I
was able — what I knew I ought to
speak. Now I am not going to
listen to yon: you have listened to
me, that is enough. Good-bye! and
I wish you all hi^piness.'
She began to walk away from
him; but she did not dare diaobey
152
Cross Purpoiss*
the Tdoe that ooxnmanded her to
Snse. He took both her hands in
I, looked into her fietce, trying to
meet her eyes, but they would not
rise higher than his hands; they
noticed a hole in his gloye, for which
she would yesterday have scolded
him, taking off his glove— taking it
home to mend. A quick sob sur-
prised her, as she thought of this.
He said —
'I do not know you to-day,
Edith : you have strangely changed
in the few days of my absence. Tou
are a hard and reckless woman this
morning: you seem to haye no feel-
ing for me, or my pain.'
' Your pain !' (" You hypocrite !"
she said, but only to her own
heart,) and added, to her own heart,
' He is no hypocrite; he is too good
not to feel pain. Your pain,' she
repeated aloud, ' won't last long if
we part now ; while if we married,
not loving each other, I suppose our
pain would have to last our life-
times.'
'Whatismy&ult? How have I
so suddenly forfeited my right to
your love? What have I done or
left undone?*
'We are curiously made,' she
answered. ' I do not know what of
that we do or leave undone is fault,
and what is fortune. I do not sup-
pose we would any one of us act as
we do, when we act what we call
wrongly, if we could help it If I
have been angry with you, and said
it was your fftult, I am not angry
now. How can it be your &ult that
I do not love you?'
'It is some fault in me, then—
some fault so suddenly discovered.'
He paid no heed to the last
phrase of her sentence; indeed the
eyes, liquid, and as full of love as of
pain, which had met his for an in-
stant, had given the lie to it.
' I didn't say so. I won't say any-
thing, except I wish to be free.
Tyrant 1 let go my hands 1' she
cried.
'You poor little soull' he said,
compassionately, ' what are you thus
tormenting yourself about? Tell me
your trouble, my child. I cannot
believe that you do not love me ! —
I do not believe it!'
'Oh, no I' she answered, her face
on fire ; 'it must be hard for tho
irresistible Mr. Herbert Oldenshaw,
of Firlands, to believe that any wo-
man to whom he has been kind does
not love him, or his estate. Leave
me alone, sir! Let me go !'
'Go then! I see, Edith, that if I
keep you any longer in your present
mood, I shall only lead you to speak
words you will afterwards be sorry
for : but I do not do you the injustice
to believe that you are serious.'
One more earnest look, and then he
dropped her hands.
'That is like you! I was moro
than mortal while I loved you;
now '
' While you loved me you were
a sweet woman, not all honey, but
all the more bewitching for a dash
of spice ; now ^You seem to mo
thoronghly unamiable.'
'I dare say I do! I dare say I
am! You may say it was incom-
patibility of temper that led to tho
breaking of our engagement'
'When I acknowledge it as a
broken engagement I may. At
present I do not relinquish youf
At present I am of my old opinion :
I had rather haye you scold and
love me, than any other woman
praise and flatter me^ I do not
know that it is good taste, but it is
mine.'
' " A poor ill-&youred thing, but
mine, sir, mine." I understand. But
now I have lost all charm for you,
for I am no longer yours, sir, bat
mine, sir, mine. And how you dare
pay to me what you have jost said,
I leave you to ask your own con-
science. It is all a mystery to mo
-all.'
She broke from him and ran
down the road.
He remained a long time where
she had left him ; he was yexed and
pained, but more for her than for
himself, and not in any way very
seriously distressed; he did not
believe but that she would be hi»
wife at the appointed time after all.
But this outbreak of temper grieved
him : he was disappointed in her, and
perplexed to find a cause for such
an unexpected demonstration. It
was not till, in the course of a few
days, several of his friends — that is
to say, the doctor and the clergy-
Cr(M Pwrpoges.
158
man, and the widow who owned
Belle-yne— had condoled with him
on the breaking-off of his engage-
ment, and two ladies, with nmneioos
daughters. Hying respeotiyely at
Fnrzey Down and at Beanchamps,
had congratulated him on the same
&ct, that he began to be, at least,
seriously annoyd.
Hie little tormentress, after
leaTing him, ran down the road till
she came to a green gate oversha-
dowed, like all the rest of the road,
by beeches ; it led intoa small garden,
— ^lawn, fir-trees, and bright flower-
beds,—lying in front of a pretty
ivied cottage, behind which the hill
rose protectingly. The largest room
of this cottage had a long window
opening on to the gravelled path.
SiGss Gaysworth, Edith's invalid and
lame sister-she was fifteen years
older than Edith, and had been a
mother to her— lay on a conch in the
sunshine of this window.
Edith went to her: she always
liked to get things over quickly. She
now said, ' Herbert is come back.
I've seen him and I've broken off my
engagement to him. I shall never
many him, or anybody. I am
sorrv yon took such a fanc^ to Fir-
lands, Lily; but yon like this
cottage very mnch, too, and you'll
get more of me, so there's compen-
sation for you. No, I can't stay
to answer any questions. I am off
now to the Sea-wall House ; I shall
be late for the children's lessons.
I don't wish ever to be spoken to
about my engagement, or about
Herbert Not that he's to blame : /
broke it off; h^s not to blame ; and I
wish all the world to know (all our
small world) that it is broken off,
and that he's not to blame. Ton
used to teU me, Lily, I could never
hope to get a husband if I didn't
curb my temper, and I'm not going
to get one yon see. Qood-bye, Lily,
don't fret about it Here's your
book, dear, and here's your work,
and I've ordered Jane to bring your
lunch in to yon at eleven, and I'm
sorry I've been out so long, and I've
asked Gertrude to come and see us,
and I shall be more at home with
yon for the future.'
All this was said in hurried,
gasping sentences : then she kissed
the invalid, and was q£ She was
daily governess to the motherless
childr^ at the Sea-wall House,
whose master was Mr. Herbert
Oldenshaw's elder brother; a grave
man, aged and worn by sufferings
who treated her with fatherly kind-
ness, and whom she loved dearly.
' I don't seem to feel it much,' she
said, as she went down the road in
the glancing sunshine, the dancing
sea glittering before her eyes. 'The
world looks just the same merry
world: nothing seems changed.
People say, at all events in books— I
don't know that I've ever heard any
real person speak about these things
— ^that to do what I have done re-
quires an almost superhuman effort
of self-sacrifice. Ifl felt it as I ought,
I ought to have fiunted, or at least to
have cried violently. Perhaps I did
not love him so very much after all.
Yet I think I did. Perhaps I do
not yet believe that I have lost him.
I think that is it. All the pain is
to come. I caught myself just now
thinking of this evening, when he
would be with us — when he would
read to Lily and me while we
work, and we should be so happy.
And he won't come this evening, or
ever again any evening. All the
pain is to come. God help me !'
Those last words, the words of
self-pity, did the mischief.
Suddenly something came over
her — an overwelming^uncontrollable
feeling : she went out of the road,
through a gate, and hid herself in a
little thicket; there she cried as if
her heart would break, her face
buried to stifle the sound. She rose,
dried her eyes, looked at her watch,
smoothed her hair, readjusted her
hat, said to herself, 'I am better
now— but I am very late,' and
hurried down the steep drive to the
House.
From a distance she saw all her
little pupils playing on the sands —
those deep golden sands of the Isle
of Wight She went to them there,
and they came clustering around
her.
'Oh, Edith, we thought you
wem't coming to-day. Uncle Herbert
said you weren't coming to-day.
Papa said you wem't coming every
day now, because Uncle Herbert is
154
Qrou FwrfOBtB.
back, and wants jon to be ao mtieh
witbhim.'
' Oh yea, I am coxumg ercffy day
now. Your UDde Herbert is mis-
takea, and yoor pea^ who ia always
right, and who is « great deal wiser
than yonr Uncle Herbert^ is aJso
mistaken. And oome in to lessons
now, at onoe, like dear good children,
for it*s very late.'
'You've been exying!' said one
child. 'You've been crying!' was
echoed by all.
'And I'll make you all cry/ said
this very original little governess,
' if you don't let me alone.'
' Me so sorry Edie been crying,'
said the youngest little girl, and
slipped her hand into Edith's.
' xou darling, you dear pet !' cried
the governess, and kneeling down,
she took the lovely little fairy in her
arms, smothered her with kims, and
carried her to the house.
' Me Uncle Bertie's pet, too/ the
child said.
And just at the house-door atood
Uncle Bertie.
' Edith, that child is too heavy for
you.' He chose to speak as if
nothing had happened, a fact which
filled the girl with great indignation.
' Mr. Herbert Oldensha w, I am the
best judge of thai'
' Indeed you are not. I do not
think you are a good judge of any-
thing that concerns yourself. Amy,
come to me, darling.'
But Amy chose to be perverse :
she clung to Edith's neck and said,
' Poor Edie been crying/ as a suffi-
cient reason.
' Uncle Herbert ' stood so directly
in Edith's way that she knew he
could see this for himself, flereyes
met his defiantly. 'Cruel!' she
muttered, as she passed him. She
drove all her pupils before her into
the large schoolroom, and locked the
door.
That schoolroom had three great
south windows looking right out to
sea (you could perceive a bit of
golden gravelly shore if you stood
close to them, but not unless) : it had
also two eastern windows looking
upon a green turf bank, gorse-
studded, sloping down to black rook
and grey boulder. The room was
fall of sunshine, and the heat and
the light made Edith giddy; she
had to drawdown the blinds; and
whan she went to draw them down
she saw Mr. Oldenshaw (her master,
as she loved to call him) walking
to and fro, close to the water, leaning
on his younger brother's aim ; they
were talking earnestly. How bent
and aged her master looked* and he
was not BO vary much older than
Lilyl
What would her master think
of her YfbsD. he heard ? The young
governess was preoccupied this
morning.
That evening, Mr. Oldenshaw—
that is to say, Edith's Mr. Olden-
shaw—chose to come to the cottage
as if nothing had happened since he
was last there. He brought the book
with him he had been reading to
them, then took the seat by Miss
Gavsworth's invalid couch* that he
had occupied then. Sedng this,
Edith without a word to him,
having given him one indignant
look, gathered up her work and left
the room.
From the bedroom above ahe
heard voices all the evening, now
her sister's, now Mr. Oldensnaw's,
one low-toned interchange of talk.
' Of course Lily will think I am
using him very badly. Of course
everybody will think I am using
him very badly. What does that
matter to me ? I have done what I
thought was right to be done. I
know I did it very badly, but that is
my misfortune. I meant to be
gentle and dignified* all I am always
trying to be, and never, never can
succeed in being. Well! he is well
rid of me : I never should have made
a proper Mrs. Oldenshaw of Fir<
lands. Now Gertrude is ; oh, I
hate Gertrude 1' said with the heart-
iest, honestest energy. 'That is
very wicked too !' she added ; ' and
I'm afraid when nobody loves me I
shall be very wicked.'
She went on thinking strange
confused thoughts as she employ^
herself in turning out her writing-
case, jewel-case, and secret sacred
drawer, collecting his letters, his pre-
sents, all kept religiously, whether
flowers or jewels.
' Perhaps he will believe that I
am in earnest when he gets th^/
OrosB FwfOBeB^
15S
she said, with an emphasiB laaentfal
of his present incredulity. ' If he
will only go away, leave off ^Mining
hare, after— well, after he has made
it all straight with Gertrude. If I
have to go on seeing him, perhaps
I may in time aziive at a pK^per
pitch of distraction.' Scoffing at
narself , she pressed her hand v^khi
her heart ' I always h»ve said I
did not know I had <me, bnt I'm
going to learn that I have now by
this pain that's beginning.'
By-and-by, lookmg over the pages
of a journal she had once, girlie-
fashion, kept, ion fear of accidents,
in a cypher of her own invention,
she leaa (dated the 30th of Novem-
ber, nearly three years ago)—
' I did not think such a dismal
day could have «nded so pleasantly :
such a dismal day! passed in an
ugly schoolroom among rude chil-
di«n, a wet street and wet people to
look out at: nothing to look for-
ward to but the tedious change of a
couple of hours spent in the draw-
ing-room, over my fancy - work,
among people who must dislike
having me as much as I dislike
being with them. Ah!' she said«
breaking off from her reading and
thinking aloud, ' howdifferant things
ware then I We were so poor, I
could not keep a home for Lily. She
boarded with those wretched people
who neglected her so, and I had to
take the highest-paying sitnaticm I
could get, and try not to care if I
were miserable or not Who made
eveiything different? Es did. I
might go through as many verses as
there are in the "My Mother"
poem, in the chikiren's book, and,
making my own list of questions,
say, " He did 1" in answer to all of
them. Well, I am trying, in my
awkward, staind way, that is so
hard, for it seems sudi a wicked
ungrateful way, to reward him. I
wish, though, he wouldn't look so
pained about it'
She thought for some time, tiien
she went on reading, slowly and
blunderingly, from her journal : —
'The evening of tins wretched
day I go down into the drawing-
room as usual, and there is aperson
there who turns round as I enter
and comes to meet me, who takes
my hand and looks at me so kmdly
tluU;, what with surprise and what
with pleasure, the teaxs come into
my eyes, and it is a wcmder that I
don't startle all propdeties by put-
ting my arms round his neek I He
places a chair for me next his own,
and pushes a footstool to my feet,
and reaches me my woirk-oase. H!ow
did he know what I was looking
for? or which was mine? Why
didn't he give me Mrs. Dyson's
instead? Surely he didn't remem-
ber the shabby little thing? He
altogether to take possession
of me, as if he pitied the poor little
lonely thing, and meant to caxe for
it and pet it And he breaks off his
talk with Mr. Dyson, and talks to
me of lily, and Lily's health ; and of
how he thinks she needs milder
air; and of how his brother has a
pretty cottage to let, in just such a
place as he thinks would suit lily ;
and then he tells me that his brotiuar
wants a governess for his motherless
childron, and so he talks on, open-
ing up a new and such a bright
prospect, though he dashes every-
thkg a little by tolling me he is
soon going to India again for two
years. And when he turns from me
to talk to Mr. Djson again, his arm
is gtili on the back of my chair, and
his voice lulls me to a dream, and
all the world is changed for me, for
lieiblhA remembers. And when Mrs.
Dyson's soft voice says in my ear,
'' Miss Gaysworth, I think you have
forgotten the children: it is long
past their bed-time," I start as if I
had had cold water flung over me,
and rise in awkward haste, throwing
scissors, 4;himble, cotton, on the floor
— forhCfmtopickupl And he asked
me should he see me again that
night ; and when I said a reluctant
"No," he asked Mrs. Dyson at what
time he could see me in the morn-
ing, "to talk over fomily-<affidrs ;
for Mrs. Dyson, she is, I consider,
a aort of a ward of mine!" A sort
of a ward! I feelas if he would
only *
There the journal broke off for
that time ; but she vead a fow later
entries and then told herself to de-
sist—that she was doing the worst
thing, tiie stupidest thing ponnbie.
But her thoughts were not much
156
Croa Pwrpote$,
safer: she lemembered all hiaworda
and looks— remembered the coming
to the presoit home, prepared by
him for her and Lily, remembered
the parting and hia retnml The
bedroom was oold and cheerlees,
her ccmdle had burnt down to the
socket: she listened to the voices
downstairs, beloved voices both, and
thought of the lamp-light, the fire-
light, the kind eyes, the loving
hands, the cheerfulness and the
warmth there— and then, very un-
heroically, she begEui to cry.
The voices ceased : the halI*door
opened and dosed: she waited to
hear the click of the garden-gate
and the sound of footsteps down the
road.
' He didn't stop as long as usual,'
she said carelessly to lily, as, having
bathed her eyes, she entered the
sitting-room.
' No; he said he would not keep
you up in the cold. Oh, Edith I
what has possesaed you ? How can
you treat such a man in this way?
A man who has been so good to us,
so very good. Surely, child, it is
only a ft^, if ao, a wicked one ; but
anything is better than to believe
you can seriously mean to be so—'
Edith interrupted her.
' I am trying to be good to him
in return for his goodness to us. If
the goodness of a deed is to be
judged, as some people seem to
think, by its hardness, I am being
very good to him. You can't see
how? I dare say not; but some
day you will; till then you must
try and trust me.'
' But, Edith '
' But, Lily— I have told you, and
I tell you again, I will not hear you
or any one on this subject There I
I have made you cry. Tea, that is
justhowitalwaysis. I am a wretched
oreatore, bom to make everyone
unhappy, especially every one who
loves me. If you only knew, Lily '
— ^here she knelt by her sistePs
couch and buried her face in her
sister's dress—' how it hurts I how
it hurts! how miserable I ami you
would cry for me, Lily, insteaa of
crying for him.'
' I cry for him, Edith 1' her sister
said, but drew the girl fondly close.
' I never could bear to see a man
suffer, and he is suffering. Tou have
only to watch him, to look into his
eyes, and to see the way he twitches
hia mouth and gnaws his moustache.
No, Edith, I never oould bear to see
a man suffer. It nearly breaks my
heart when your master, aa you call
him, sits by me and talks to me, so
gently, so kindly, with his eyes
seeing and his heart suffering, so
fu away ; and Herbert's fiue will got
to have the same look if you use
him so badly.'
'The hypocrite!' cried Edith.
' No, no, no,— I don't mean that I
know he is suffering, but never
mind him, lily, it will soon pass;
he will be happier soon than I ever
could make him.'
'Child, child, you talk very
wildly — very wickedly. You seem
to have no opinion of the futhful-
ness of the man you are playing
with.'
'I am playing with no man. You
are a cruel sister to say I am. Oh,
I have the very highest opinion of
Mr. Herbert Oldenshaw's fiuthful-
ness. He would marry a girl he
had ceased to love, and break the
heart of one he did love, sooner than
break his word. That is my opinion
of lus fiiithfalnessl And now no
more about him— not a word. He
is a good man and a true one; I
hope be will be a happy one !'
' What crotchet can you have got
into your head?* murmured Miss
Gaysworth, and dared say no more ;
but she lav awake all through the
night pondering this matter over,
and was consequently ill the next
morning. She was a very frail
creature. She would in all proba-
bility have been dead before this
time had she not been transplanted
to the soft-breathed, sheltered, sunny
southern nook where she now dwelt
And it was Mi. Herbert Oldenshaw's
care that had thus transplanted her.
He had known these women well in
prosperous days, begizming at a be-
ginning when Edith was a little
child ; their dead brother had been
his dearest friend. Coming home
from India, on family business, soon
after they had fallen into sudden
poverty, he had made it his care to
care for them.
Orou PurpOMS.
167
CHAPTER IL
A few days passed Tery painftdly,
during which Mr. Herbert Olden-
shaw still came to Iyj Oottage, still
sought to meet Edith there, on the
road, or at the Sea-wall House, and
she still obstinately avoided him. A
diversion came in the arriyal of
' Gertrude/ a tall, fair, statelv girl,
who might have been most lovely
had she not had a wan, sickly look,
and who drooped now like a droop-
ing lily.
'Isn't she the very ideal of a
love-sick girl?' asked Edith soom-
f ally of her sister. ' The very bajag
of her dress, and droop of her hair,
and fall of her lashes, suggest a sen-
timental despondency. I hope I
could die of love and not show the
green sickness of it so plainly.'
'I wonder why you asked Ger-
trude here, Edith V
'Don't you like having her?'
* Yes, I was always fond of her;
but her company can be no pleasure
to me if you are vexed and irritated
by her, and cannot treat her kindly
without constantly-recurring efifort'
'Perhaps,' said Edith, 'I have
undertaken more than I can go
through with. An old trick of
mine! I shall see. If I find I
have I can go away somewhere.'
' Oousin Edith, can you spare me
a few minutes before you go out?'
asked Gertrude that morning at
break&st-time. The languid ca-
dence of the mournful musical
voice made Edith, who had been
trying to be kind, cross directly.
' I always like to get disagreeable
things over; so, if you have any-
thing to say, I will hear it now,' she
answered, roughly. ' Come a little
way up the hill behind the cottage
witii me. Jane's ears are sharp,
and old Wilson is brushing up
leaves in the garden. What's the
use of brushing up leaves, I won-
der! I am always brushing up
leaves, and they fall thicker and
faster; and it is all smothered up
with them again, just as it was b^
fore.' These last words to herself.
' Don t you want your shawl,
Ger? The wind is sharp, and you
look such a skim-milk sort of crea-
ture.'
' I will get it, and join you in a
minute; Gertrude answered, meekly.
The two girls were soon together
on one of the terraces cut m the
hUl behind the cottage. But Ger-
trude stood panting after the slight
ascent, and did not spea^.
Edith looked at her watch. ' In
a quarter of an hour I ought to be
down there,' pointing to the Sea-
wall House, lying below.
' It is strange to me, Edith,' the
girl began, timidly (this stately, tall
Gertrude seemed curiously to dread
her little companion), 'why you
asked me to come and see you. I
was glad to come, dear, because I
thought '
' WeU, what did you think?'
' I thought you had some special
reason for asking me. I thought,
perhaps, you knew '
' I do know— oZ^ I meant to be
good to you, but I find it difficult'
' I never would have come, Edith,
if only lily had asked me; but as
you asked me I thought I had
better come. I though^ I hoped,
some good might arise out of it.
But now I see my mistake; my
presence is painful to you. Mr.
Oldenshaw' (that name spc^en so
tremulously !) ' has not been to the
cottage since I came; though Lily
tells me he used to be here con-
stantly.'
' Does she think he wottld court
her under my nose!' Edith ex-
claimed to herself, and plunged
her hand into a gorse-busn, inflict-
ing a salutary pricking.
'I do not see that my being
here can do any good,' continued
Gertrude; 'it is evidently painful
to you. I want to ask you, do you
not think I had better go?'
The tone of shrinking timidity,
of submission, of resignation, in
which Gertrude spoke, touched
Edith's generosity.
' No,' she said ; ' you shall not
go, Gertrude: if either of us go
away, I will, while you stay with
Lily. Lily is very fond of you^ and
Lily is gentie to you. I have
wanted a change for a long time.'
Gertrude lifted her lashes and
opened her languid eyes wide— per-
haps she was wondering what
change this girl could want—this
Ifi6
OoM Piirpotet.
girl, wlio ymald booh be lo bappDy
Buurrisd (for lilj had moealfttod
h» wiih the beliaf that thia oloiid
between the lovers waa only doe to
some childish freak of Edith'a, irbkh
would paas).
' I cannot hme tiuit I caimot
driye you fioia yonr hraoe, Edith.
What would Mi; Oldenahaw say?
Indeed, iodeed, I think I had
better go.'
' Not another word. Yon are not
to go. And— what has Lily been
saying to yon aboat my engage-
ment? Oh, I see; but she is quite
wrong. My eagagament is finally
and definitely brokan o£El I am
£ree, and so is Herbert Ya» must
imow she ia qnite wrang. I can't
s^y and talk any longer. I hate
speaking of these things. Heisnot
in the least to blame. And I hope,
when I am gone *way, yoa and ne
and Lily will be very happy.'
She laa down the hillnaide,
leaving QertnidB in a state of bewil-
dement.
' She knows all about it, and is
annoyed--«eeretly angry with me, I
daresay. But what has her broken
engagement to do with it? Did
they quacrd about me? I never
oonld understand Edith. Some-
times she seemed all heart, and
sometimes seemed to have no feel-
ing for any one— herself least of all.
She is a very strange girll' But
poor Gertrude had such much more
personal troubles and perplexities
growing and deepening upon her
uiat she soon fiurgot to think of
Edith.
Just as she re-entered the garden
at one gate she saw Mr. fi«rbert
Oldenshaw entering it by the other,
from the road: she drew back, but
he had seen her. He joined her.
' Miss Brown, I believe; we have
met before.'
She blushed overpoweringly ;
hands, throat, were all suffused
with crimson: the dying away of
that blush left her so white, with
such bknohed lipS) he thought she
was about to &int He offered his
arm: she took it, because she
needed it, and because, for her own
reasons, she was only too glad of
any sign of kindness from him.
Her distress and agitation ware
so real that his brow relaxed from
its stem annoyance, and he looked
down on her Idndly— reaasoniigly.
'I will not ask to speak to 3m
to-day on any subject of speoial in-
terest,'he said. ' You seem nerrefos
andunafcnmg. We lAaU have ott»r
opportnnitiea '
' I am,' ate said, hurriedly, 'more
than nervous and imstrung. I am
miaerabla It is kind of you to
egan me, but we want yonr counsel.
Oh, if only you will be kind to
us!'
She liflad up her eyes to his im-
Sloringly, tears now streaming
own from them: he (her hand
resting om. his arm) could ihel how
she was shaking.
' I wish to be your trae friend,' he
said; 'but the position in which
you have placed yourselves makes
it very difficult to know how to
help you. And I so hate deceit and
concealment, that it is difficult for
me to think kindly of those who
practise i^— as if they did not
bate it'
He led her to the sitting-room,
followed her in, sat talking to Miss
Gaysworth, and was so preoccupied
that he did not notice that Miss
GayBWC»rth's manner was a little
different from usual.
When he was gone MissGi^ysworth
said—
' Gertrude, my" love, I thought
you told me that you knew Mr.
Herbert Oldenshaw very slightly.'
' I have seen him a few times at
his mother's.'
'Only a few tones?'
' Only a few times ; and then not
always to speak to.'
Lily Qaysworth had strangely
penetrating ^es. She turned them
on the girl, and Gertrude blushed
again in that sudden, overpowering,
unaccountable way, that was made
the more oonspiouous by her ordi-
nary pailor.
' I am not very well,' die faltered.
' I will go to my own room.'
On the stairs she met Edilii.
Edith had been in her bed-room,
dressing to go out. Edith had
heard the fomiliar click of the gar-
den-gate, and had cautiously drawn
near the window. Edith had seen
the meeting, the stem brow soften
Oroia Purpo§e9.
159
to pity 10 like tendeniess, ansim-
JBg the implormg apwaord look.
Whal eoold she think? Her
cheeks weie oiimwxi and her eyes
blazing when she met the faint and
filtering Oertmde upon the stairs.
She swept past her.
' "When morning lessons are oyer
wfll yon oome to speak to me in the
lihnury, Edith?' Mi:. Oldenshaw
said, looking into the schoolroom.
' Shall yon be alone there, sir?'
' Edith r eiied one of the diildren,
' yon tell ns we ought to answer
papa at onoe, not ask other ques-
tions instead.'
' I want yon to be a great deal,
better than I am/ answered the
gOTemesSy and put her band on the
boy's mouth: he fell to kissing tiiat
hand. Edith, looking round, re-
peated her question.
' Tes, I will be alone theie.'
' I will oome then. Ifyonhsdn't
asked me I should have asked
you.'
Aooordingly, at twelve o'clock, she
tnxned tiie chilcbren out on to the
sands and went to Mr. Oldenahaw's
library.
Be put her a chais close to his
own, and then, taking her hand in
his— (she lauf^ed neryoody, said it
was like a mmical consultation, but
did not make him smile)— began
indulgently —
'Now, tell me all about it, child ;
things cannot go on as th^ are
doing at pnsenk You axe losing
your health and yoDi temper. Twice
lately I haye heard you Qjeak
ahitfply to my motheirlaiw fittle
girto.'
'Oh, Mr. Oldenshaw! I am so
sorry.' The tears begsa to drop
alseady.
'I didn't call you here to scold
yon, Edith, but to tey and cure the
cause of aU this. Herbert has been
more like a son than a brother to
me always; and yon are like an
eldest dMghter to me. I ask you
now to treat me as a &ther ; tell
me all about it?*
'About what, sir?' Playing with
his hand.
' I aeyer expect pteyacieatim from
yotu,Edith. You /mow what I mean.
What is the secret history and mys-
tery of this foolish business between
you and Herbert What did you
quarrel about ^
' We hayen't quarrelled at all. I
broke off the engagement I had
reason to know it couldn't end in
happiness to either of us. I broke it
off, and it is broken off— for always !'
' Don't you think you might have
found out sooner that it would be
well to do this. Miss Qaysworth?
Don't you thii:d^ you might bays
told him this before he had set you
in the yery centre of his life— be-
fore he had bound all his hopes of
fature happiness round you ?
'I told it him as soon as I knew
it myself, and long, before what you
say had been done, or long after it
had been undone, it doesn't matter
which,' she answered, in a tcme that
sounded suUen.
'I neyer thought you Ihultless,
Miss Gaysworth, nor in any way a
perfect woman, tibough a thoroughly
loyable one ; but I thought that such
fiuilts as you had you would try
to cure for Herbert's sake. Among
them I did not expect to haye to
find fickleness, un&ithfnlnees, prone-
ness to jealousy and suspicion.
From these things I should haye
said you were singularly free. If
you haye no explanation to giye
me,— if yon show no diiq^oeition to
amend yomr firalt,— if you do not
eyen show any sorrow for it, will
you wonder that a girl, whose cha-
racter I so little approye, will hardly
be the con^Mnion and instructress
I shall choose for my own children ?*
Was Mr. Oldenshaw trying to
frighten her, or was he really as
angry as his words seemed ?
Edith let go his hand and folded
her own in her lap. Her fisuse looked
sullen, hard, impenetrable.
' Haye you formed any other at-
tachment ? That is the only reason
for your conduct that can suggest
itself. I am speaking to you as a
fiEtther to a daughter. So 1 ask no
excuse for my question.'
' Say I haye, if you like ; say any-
thing you like of me. Why not
belieye one bad thing as well as
another? Talk of speaking to me
as a father to a daughter I Oh, I
only hope, Mr. Oldenshaw, you may
neyer ^fatherly to Amy in the way
you are now to mel'
160
Cro$$ Purpo9e$.
'That hardened, leckless, bitter
tone is Tery painfol to bear/
' Oan't you fuicy it speaks out of
pain ? And he lets me be treated
like this ! He lets me be spoken to
like this r
' If you mean Herbert, he does not
know I had any intention of speak-
ing to you. He defends you, says
all the &ult must be his '
' But he doesn't tell you what is
his fault?'
' He does not know himself, poor
feUow.'
'Doeshenotr
' Ton insinuate, Miss Qaysworth,
that my brother is much to blame.'
' I do not, Mr. Oldenshaw ; he is
not to blame ; nobody is to blame.
It cannot be helped. Does not
misery come often without blame ?*
' But in this instance. Miss Gays-
worth *
' I tell you what it is^ Mr. Olden-
shaw, go on calling me that; go on
looking at me like that, and — and
— I won't bear it! I have lost
Herbert ! I have lost Herbert 1 Is
not that enough ? Why should you
be cruel ? What harm have I done
to youf I won't bear to live if
you * Here she broke into such
passionate crying as will burst out
from long-restrained complicated
anger and suffering, when they once
begin to find expression.
He walked to and &o in the room.
By-and-by he paused behind her,
pressing his hands upon her head.
'Hush, hush, my child 1 Just
tell me the truth, let me help you.
Surely, if you still loye Herbert, it
can all be made right again.'
'Never, never, never, as long as
any of us live,' she sobbed.
He had been thinking of Herbert,
feeling for Herbert in all that had
yet passed, but now the agony of
her distress was so unmistakeable
that he b^gan to think and feel for
her.
'What can I do for you, child ?
How can I help you?'
' Send me away ; take me away ;
do something with me that will
save me from seeing him day after
day.'
He meditated. 'I have been
thinking of sending Alice and Flo-
rence to stay with my sister for a few
weeks before the winter is quite
upon us. Will you ^o with them?*
'If youpleaseL ar,if she will have
me. But Amy? what will beoome
of my pet Amy ?'
'She is my pet, too, Edith.'
' But I don t think nurse is kind
enough to her, Mr. Oldenshaw.
Can't Amy oome too? She shan't
be any trouble to any one. I will
have her always with me.'
' I cannot spare her, and my sis-
ter's place is too exposed and cold
for the child. I will do the best I
can for her. If after a few we^s
things remain as tiiey are now '
'But they won't!'
'Indeed I I thought just now *
'You misunderstand me. Tou
will see. I shall be able to come
back— to Lily-^ the oottag^—to
you; to my pet here '
'But not to Herbert?'
* You will see— you will see.'
'You are an inexplicable girl!
You seem to love mysteries, which
I hate.'
' You can't hate them as I do, not
half as bitterly as I do.'
' Now go to the children, and tiy
and let the sea-wind cool those poor
cheeks of yours.'
'And will you please try and
think kindly of me, will you?' she
repeated coaxingly. 'You break
my heart when you are so stem.'
She put out both her hands.
'Though I am never to be your
daughter, won't you be my kind
master still ? I Imow I am not in
anything good, but in this one thing
I am t^ing to be good ; and it is
so hard,' she began to sob again :
'just when I so need help, and
when I deserve help more than
ever before, not to Imve any love
from any one, nor aiur sympathy, I
who have had so much '
First he grasped her hands, then
he took her in his arms— the fatherly
arms into which his children had
often flown first, even in their sweet
mother's lifetime.
' You are a poor little misguided,
mistaken thing I' he said, tcmderly.
' But I do believe you are trying to
do right, and I can only trust that
time will show and cure your error.
Now be off, my child!'
Orass Purposes.
161
CHAPTEB IIL
'All the world is going wrong, I
think/ wrote Miss Gaysworth to
Edith, 'and I am going to write
you the exact truth about things,
iEklith dear, for you have left me so
in the dark that I have no means of
knowing how much it is best to tell
you— 4iow much best to keep from
you.
'Did you go away on purpose
that Mr. Herbert Oldenshaw, while
Buffering from your harshness,
should be consoled by Gertrude's
gentleness? Did you go away on
purpose that Mr. Herbert Olden^w
should fisbU in love with Gertrude?
Did you go away on purpose that
Gertrude should be free to lay her-
self out to please and to win Mr.
Herbert Oldenshaw, and that he
should be free to be pleased and
won?
' I shall soon haye a badJlIness,
Edith. I lie awake at night asking
myself these questions, and get no
sleep for worrying over these things.
I am sometimeB so angry with yon,
sometimes so angiy with Gertrude,
sometimes so angry with Herbert,
sometimes so angiy with aU of you,
sometimes with some of you, that
my heart is always beating faster
than it should. What do you mean?
What do they mean? What does
it all, or any of it, mean?
' Tou have been gone three weeks,
just three weeks to-day. As I look
over the lawn there, pacing the walk
at the foot of it, where not six weeks
ago you used to skip up and down
beside him, or try to walk gravely,
keeping his step — ^there he walks
now, and Gertrude beside him — a
handsome man and a beautiful wo-
man, whom any one would take for
iovers, if not for husband and wife,
already. And the man is your
lover and the woman is Gertrude,
-and I rub my eyes and try to find
out it is a dream. I look up again :
here, close to the window, is old
Wilson, brush, brash, brash, trying
^'to keep under tiiem littering
leaves" (as he calls the autumn
jewels and gold that&ll so freely),
and there, a few yards further off,
just out of his hearing, are that
handsome pair.
TOL. XVI. — ^NO. xcu.
' Tou say you are not surprised —
that it is all going as you expected —
that you only wish I would spare
you details; but I won't; for either
you are wickedly rash, or you are
wickedly wronged. I cannot get it
out of my head that Gertrude is a
married toomanl There! I have
written it! Shall it go? It is one
of the fimcies that get into a sick
head, and don't get out again, I dare
say. I had made up my mind that
those words should not be written,
and there they stand, staring at me,
underlined and alL
' When you first went away, Ger-
trude seemed very shy of Herbert,
and I quite thought that he seemed
as if he struggled against some dis-
like of her, or anger against her.
I am quite sure she was afraid of
him. However, I soon began to see
that though afraid of him she was
very anxious to please him too, the
false puss! Tet I can't call her
names either, she seems such a
sweet, gentle creature, and, of late,
has had such a meek, half-heart-
broken sort of a way with her. Per-
haps she can't help trying to please
everybody; I am sure she tries hard
to please me ; and when Mr. Olden-
shaw, your master, comes here she
is in such a tremble and flutter;
she studies his looks and his words,
and says to me afterwards, " Did he
mean anything particular when he
said that? Was he offended with
me for saying this ?" I never knew
any girl so changed as Gertrude.
I used to think her nroud, and now
she puts herself unoer everybody's
feet, as it were.'
A later letter said : —
* The people are beginning to talk,
Edith.
' Old Mrs. Fowler, the other day,
simpering and nodding significantly,
the old idiot, began —
' " So Mr. Herbert is likely soon to
console himself. Well, she is a
lovely creature : though /don't hold
her any way near our Edith, I hear
it said sheUl make a fitter-looking
Mrs. Oldenshaw of Firlands!"
' I suppose yon knew that Herbert
knew Gertrude before he met her
here. 1 believe they have some se-
cret between them. Sometimes I
am absolutely certain it is not love
162
Ora8»Pwpo9m.
—thai lia knrw only you— baiaome-
timeB I bogin to doubt; then my
hewi tnniB xoond and the world
with it.
'Mr. Oldeufihaw, your master.
apeaks tenderly of yon ; asks after
yon Y6ry oompaanaoately. I see
thai he dislikes this intimacy, it is
no lees, between his brother and
Gertmda There appears to be a
eoolneoi between the brothers, and
yoor master calls yon "that poor
ehild." He is looking sadder than
erer, and he has Amy always with
him.'
A later letter BtiU said—
* I haTB been Tery mnch agitated,
Edith ; I can hardly hold my pen.
Mr. Oldenshaw and Mr. Herbert Old-
enshaw met in my sitting-roam
this eTsning. Gertmde was. out I
was in the little back room, doing
Bome mending for the lanndress. I
eonld not help hearing what passed.
I did not suppose Mr. Oldenshaw
coutd speak so narshly as he spoke
to Walter, reproTiDg him for his con-
stant seeking of Qertrude's socie^.
I could not catch all that pasBed,
but your name was used by both of
fhem. Herbert, my &Tourite Her-
bert» bore a great deal before he an-
awored in any but the gentlest way.
' " If Jealousy had anything to do
with Edith's conduct, you do your
best to show that that jealousy was
not groundless," Mr. Oldenshaw said.
Then Walter answerod, "I will tell
you, James, since yon drive me to
it, there has crossed my mind a
Tery different solution of that mys-
tery. I do not think Edith capable
of jealousy, and she had no ground
for it It has crossed my mind to
suspect that she &ncied, or feared,
that she loves you better than she
loves me. I cannot blame her," he
added; ''you are so much more
worthy. If this is so, it is a matter
for life-lonff regret, not for blame."
'I heard no more, Edith, for I
hastened to limp into the next room.
I was afraid of what might follow ;
but I saw your master go down the
road a few moments afterwards,
Amy dinging round his neck, and
there was such a look on his face !
What kind of a look I cannot tell
yoo. He was stooping more than
usual, and looked a bent old man;
the child was stroking his cheek,
bat ho didn't seem conscious of it.
Amy is looking very, wry frail just
now. Edith, think in time, what
are you doing by this mystery of
yours? What miseiy are you not
spreading? What is thers that
people may not be driven to think-
ing and suspecting when yon be-
have so in«q>Ucably?
' Ton might just as well love a
corpse in a grave as love your mas-
ter in that way. Don't you feel,
when he is kindest and tenderest,
that the best of him, the core of him,
is fer away? Fooliahold thingthat
I ami I can't write this without
blushing, but when we first came
here, three yean ago now, seeing
him so intensely sadf, I was always
thinking about him ; before I knew
it I grew to lorn him; the longing
to be of BOBoe use to him, some com-
fort, became a strong torment. I
never vas presumptuous enough to
think I oould All the place she had
filled; I knew it was not empty,
but I had mua fond dreams; tney
all died when I came to know him
and the manner of his sorrow better.
He loves all women for the sake of
one, but never again will love one.'
A later letter still—
' Edith, what shall I say to you?
How can I tell it you? My only
consolation is I b^gin to thiiJE you
knew it. Y<m broke off the engage-
ment that he might not have to do
it— to spare him oat to spare your
pride! And how much you have
been bearing of blame from every-
body, from me even, who ought to
have known you better. Come
home to me soon, my child, my
poor, ill-uaed child, and see if I do
not love you and pet you, my poor,
poor wounded buidiel Why didn't
you trust me? why didn't you trust
me?
' But you are frowning at me im-
patiently, and beating the ground
with your foot, telling me to speak
at once. I will
'Yesterday Qertrude was taken
ni; she suddenly fainted; she hasn't
been sensible since. She was in the
room above; I heard her fell, and
ran to her as fest as my lameness
would let ma I found an open
letter lying on the floor beside her.
Oro88 Purposes,
168
Oniflida it ma addranedd to "Miss
Brown/' I had seen it on the table
at breakfasVtinie^ and watobed how
BtartliB^y she flushed and then
grew lead-white as she took it up
and pat it in her pocket, to be read
when ahe was alone. As it lay open
on the ground beside her I oould
not help seeing the beginning and
ending. It began "My dearest wife,**
and was signed (it only contained a
few Unm) " H. Oldemiiaw."
*I have not been able to speak to
her yet, she is still too 01, as I told
yon, not sensible. Mr. Herbert 01-
deusbaw is away. I have seen and
spoken to your master. He only
says "This is too monstrous!" re-
peating those words again and again.
And whenlthink of Herbert^ of his
frank, good fiaoe^ his fearless eyes, /
say, " This is too monstrous \" The
world is whirling round so fast, it
spins me out of breath and out of
sense. I try not to think about
anything.
' What can it mean? Write and
tell us: yon know.
'P.S. Evening.
' Gertrude still lies helpless, only
partially sensible. The doctor shakes
his head, and talks of pressure on
the brain. (He has also asked the
strangest questions. Ton remem-
ber I said I oould not get it out
of my head that she was a married
woman.) I haye got Mrs. Wilson
to come and help us nurse. I am
not very well myself: I think I hurt
my lame hip when I ran upstairs
on hearing her fall. It has been
painful ever since.'
(3HAPTEB IV.
Edith came back to Ivy Cottage,
to nurse her cousin and take care
of her sister. To do so she got up
from a sick bed, where an attack of
nervous fever had for some days kept
her. She was a good deal changed :
her cheeks had lost their roundness
and their damask-rose-sort of rich
soft bloom, and her eyes were over-
large and bright
Mr. Herbert Oldenshaw was still
away ; he waa neither at the Sea-
wall House, nor at his own place,
Virlanda. Where he was 114^ people
knew, but where he was no one
seemed to know. His mother, to
whom lily had written to tell her
of the illness of her governess, Ger-
trude Brown, in answering that
letter asked for news of her second
son Herbert, saying she had not seen
him for many months, and that a
story about him, as painful as ab^
surd, had reached her. She also
seenouBd more curious as to the cause
than anxious about the nature or the
result of Gertrude's illness.
November was sad and gloomy,
such a month as November has the
character of bein^ in most places,
and very seldom IS in that spot All
through it Gertrude lay ill and
Edith nursed her. It was a difficult
malady to deal with and cure, being
more of the mind than the body.
Mr. Oldenshaw^s children bad to do
without their governess ; their father
songht with pathetic patience to be
motiher and father to them: tried,
for their sakes, to be cheerful, and
encouraged their merry games.
When the gloomy afternoons and
stormy evenings gathered them
about him in l£e great rooms, how
often the £Buiing twilight and the
uncertain firelight showed him their
mother among them still, her finger
raised in gentle repoof, while her
eyes glistened with sympathising
glee. He saw her and he beard her
say, ' Not so much noise, little ones ;
not auite so much noise.'
Edith and Mr. Oldenshaw had
exchanged positions with regard to
Herbert Mr. Oldenshaw sighed over
him or spoke of him with stem
wonder, while Edith had a sort of
bright and hardy confidence in him
now.
' It is too monstrous P she too had
said, and she felt it sa What she had
to believe, if she had to believe any-
thing against him, surpassed belief.
She had for a while been able to believe
that Herbert after engaging himself
to her — ^which he had done, she
said sometimes, out of pity for her
poverty and forlomneas—had formed
an attachment to her boautirul
cousin Gertrude, against his will,
had been betrayed into a declaration
of his passion fot her; but that he
had secretly married her cousin
while still eiigaged to hecMlf— had
164
Cro9$ Pwrpaes.
allowed Gertrude to occupy au
equivooal and painful position, and
Edith to bear all the blame that at-
taches to a woman who oauseleBsly
breaks off an engagement— this was
too monstrous for belief.
The first supposition even had for
a long time seemed too monstrous —
had been felt to be too monstrous
when those fearless honest eyes
shone on her,— had for a long tune
been pushed aside, and then, when
it wouldn't any longer be pushed
aside, had been combated ; but the
different bits of eyidence had accu-
mulated to an OTerwhelming whole.
When she had posted her letter to
Gertrude, she had believed beyond
all doubt that an attachment sub-
sisted between her and Herbert,
which was the cause of unhappiness
to tiiem both, because they both
struggled against it for her sake.
A kind fiiend who had yisited
near Mrs. Oldenshaw's had told
Edith of how the beautiful goyer-
neas was admired in the neighbour-
hood and courted by aU the gentle-
men of the fisimily. Another had
told her that her cousin had been
seen walking in lonely parts of the
grounds, and apparently engaged in
most intimately-confidential conver-
sation with her Mr. Oldenshaw.
Another had reported how en-
tranced Mr. Oldenshaw had seemed
by the singingoftiie lovely govemeas ;
how she had blushed at his praises,
and how, on diflforent occasions, she
had shown signs of there being some
r.eoret understanding between them.
AU this, and much more, had gone
for nothing with Edith till there
had come mto Edith's own hands,
in Gertrude's own writing, by one of
those accidents—the wrong letter
placed in the envelope— that happen
sometimes even to very cautious
and business-like people, a letter of
Gertrude's, to 'my own and only
love,' in which Gertrude spoke of
the miserable struggle of which she
was the victim, of her health giving
way beneath the long and constant
concealment she was obliged to
practise, of her diead of 'your
mother, who is so proud, and who
has yet been so kind, very kind,
toma It was hard enough to Mrs.
Oldenshaw^ you know, to have to
accept Edith as a daughter-in-law ;
now Edith's fiunily is good on both
sides, and you know who my poor
&ther was. Mrs. Oldeni^w huL to
struggle bard against her prejudices
before she would have me as govec^
ness. What will your moth^ not
feel in having to accept me as your
wifey
Edith had read so fiu: in this letter
with a throbbing heart and brain, a
mist before her eyes that gathered
over her life. She had not calmly
sat in judgment upon it and weighed
its meaning; she had not even
finished it; and had she done so,
she might have suspected that ' Mrs.
Oldenwaw' and 'your mother'
were not used as synonymous
terms; also she might have sus-
pected that this letter was not a
girl's to her lover, but a wife's to her
husband. Edith, in returning this
letter, had owned in few woras to
having partly read it; and Ger-
trude when writing next, which abe
did immediately, had said— veiy
strangely as Edith thought— how
great a comfort it was to her to
know that some one whom she could
so absolutely trust as she could her
dear Edith knew something of her
secret now. ' Only something of it,
Edith; of the rest, of whatliancy
from your letter you do not yet
know, I dare not write, but should
like to speak.'
To this letter Qdl the correspond-
ence had taken place in Mr. Herbert
Oldenshaw's brief absence) Edith
had answered by her invitation to
her cousin to spend her month of
holiday at Ivy (>>ttage.
' Her secret marriage was what
she said I did not suspect, and what
she dared not write o(' concluded
Edith, now looking over, in her own
room, during her brief resting-time,
those old enigmas, Gertrude's let-
ters. 'To whom am she be mar-
ried? Not to my Herbert What
other H. Oldenshaw is there in the
funily ? I can only think of Fred.'
' Do you dare call him that now
(your Walter), after your thoughts
have so wronged him, you presum-
ing girl ? she asked herself ' Tes,'
she answered; 'he is mine, and only
minel'
The very next day Mr. Oldenshaw,
CroM Pwrposei,
165
Edith's master, came to the cottage
and asked for Edith.
' Edith, my child, I have had a
letter from Herbert How is that
poor girl upstairs to-day?'
His fingers were trembling as he
sought for Herbert's letter from
among others in his x)ocket-book.
' A little better: she has had a
better night'
' And Lily, your sister ?'
'. Not 60 weU. I am much afraid '
(the great tears gathered^ ' she will
neyer be so well again ; she is much
more lame, and the pain is con-
stant'
'And yon?'
' Jou are making me ill !' she said,
petulantly. ' Give me the letter-
that IB, if I may read it/— added
with new humility.
' You may : but I am afraid it
will hurt you rather '
'80 much the better; I deserve to
be hurt'
' Sit down.'
'Certainly I shall, for I can't
stand.'
She laughedi but could not see
Mr. OldeiuBhaw, or the letter, or
anything, for some minutes.
< Whert is it dated from?' she
asked, bynrnd-by, lifting up her
strained eyes. ' Where is this place
with a queer name?'
'In Canada.'
' Oh, how for off he is— how for
off he is 1' cried Edith, with a plain-
tiTO Toice. 'And I want him so, to
tell him how sorry I ami to ask him
to forgiye me 1'
' You know it all he/ore you read
the letter, then?'
'I don't know anything, except
that my Herbert hasn't done any-
thing wrong. Now, do be quiet,
please.'
She turned away her lace then
and read his letter. She read it to
the end, and then she kissed it, and
clasped it, and cried over it hysteric-
ally (being weak from watching).
' Now isn't that like Herbert ?' she
said to Mr. Oldenshaw.
' Just like him, the noble fellow I
I'm going to write to him, Edith ;
will you put in a note ?'
' What was it you thought would
pain me?' she asked, instead of an-
swering.
' What he says about yon— as if
he supposed you cared nothing for
>iiTn now.'
' I hardly noticed that It will be
so easy to correct that little mis-
take.'
' Will you write to him ?'
' I think not I hardly feel as if
I had any right to, I have used him
so badly. A note can't say anything
that should be said— not one of my
notes.'
' If you do not write, or send a
message, I shall make a message.'
' You must do as you please
about that'
She kissed his hand, hugged Amy,
and was obliged to leave hmL She
went upstairs to the sick room.
When she entered it, Gertrude
looked at her and said (Gertrude
had hardly yet looked reoognizingly
at anything)—
' The letter— the letter I got from
my husband the day I was taken ill
—where is it, Edith?'
' Lily knows ; I will ask Lily.'
She knew now who this husband
was. Her Herbert's cousin. But why
'H.,' when she only knew him as
'Fred?'
She got the letter from lily, and
brought it to Gertrude.
' Bead it to me, darling,' said the
sick girl, languidly.
Edith tried, but again a mist came
over her eyes. She drank a glass of
water and tried again, this time
succeeding.
It was a passionate, remorseful,
heartbroken letter of farewell.
Gertrude's foulty husband,a weakly-
impetuous, and yet foscinatangly-
lovable young man, overwhelmed
witJi debt and all kind of difficulty,
and knowing that soon it would be
absolutely needful that he should
own his wife, had be^d tempted to
commit forgery. His mother —
Herbert Oldenshaw's mother's sister
(the two sisters had nuirried two
brothers), and a still prouder
woman than the other Mrs. Olden-
shaw—on discovering his secret
marriage to her sister's governess,
had refdsed him any help or counte-
nance—had cast him off in this way,
driving him to desperation. He
was but a bimgler at crime ; he was
almost immediately threatened with
1G6
Cross PtarpoieB,
diBOOTerj. He was obliged to fljr
the oouDtry suddenly, with no time
left to see his wife. This was the
news of the fiuewell letter which
had stricken poor Gtortrade almost
for death. His consin he had only
half confided in, or he woold never
have needed to take these desperate
steps. And his cousin, as Herbert's
letter to his brother had told Edith,
after straining ereiy nerve to oblite-
rate all traces of his crime, had
started in pursuit of him, to bring
him home in safety to the possibility
of leading an honoured and an
honourable life.
Kdith knowing this, having read
his letter to Gertrude, ooald take
her hand in hen and speak words
of comfort
'Herbert is ||one to him. Herbert
has been working for him. Herbert
will make it ail right. Herbert will
bring him home to you, Qer, darling !
there will be no more heart- wearing
conoeahnent and pain. You will
begin to be happy then. Herbert
can do everything: he can even
make peace between poor Fred and
his mother. Why does Fred sign
himself II. Oldenshaw, Ger ?'
' His name is Herbert F^erick.'
'If only my Herbert had known
everything sooner,' Edith said after
a loug pause; 'and if only I had
never believed anything Herbert did
not tell me !'
' Your Herbert is very good/ said
Gertrude, faintly. 'I should have
sunk long ago if it had not been for
my confidence in him. He was awi^
— gone to look for Fred in town —
when this came, and I thought he
. was too late. I thought, perhaps,
Fred meant— to— to kill himself.'
' No, no, no ! He will come back
safe, he will find you well; his
mother will forgive him. All will
be well.'
And then while Gertrude sank to
sleep again, Elith sat thinking, with
down-<iropping tears that begged
his forgivijuess, and half-murmured
£ ray era that ptayed blessings on
im — of her Herbert^if only she
had never believed an> thing that
HerLert had not told her !
GHAPTEB V.
The time before Herbert and the
misguided young husband could be
back drttged yery slowly.
Poor Frederick Oldenshaw had
been always the black sheep of the
fomily, not often among them, not
often spoken of by them, and when
he was, always as ' Fred.' Gtoirude
grew comparatively strong again,
and moved about the house, doing
her part in it No lonser the
drooping love-sick girl Edith had
scorned, for she had thrown off the
burden of that long concealment;
but she could not bat be an anxious
and sorrowful woman, more easily
shaken by fear than moved to hope.
The sea had never before h&ea a
terror to Edith, but it was this
winter. She resumed her duties as
fovemesstothe Oldenshaw children;
ut as she sat in their schoolroom,
that heaving, seething mass which
spread before the windows, was
always drawing her eyes, and
through them swallowing up her
thoughts, her life itself, as it seemed
to her sometimes.
She had plenty of sad things to
think about; Miss Gaysworth did
not rally, and the physician who had
been summoned nrom town by Mr.
Oldenshaw to give an opinion of her
case had decided that the spring in
all probability, as &r as his judgment
went, would not find her among
them; the disease that caused her
lameness, aggravated by late over-
exertion, was rapidly sapping her
strength, he said.
Then little Amy, the pet child,
the darling so dearly bought, was
fading; she did not 'do lessons'
now ; she was always on Edith's lap
through the school hours. She did
not want to play now ; she was in her
father's arms, carried up and down
in the wind and sunshine out-doors
in mild weather, or in the room in-
doors in harsh weather in play
hours ; the little fece did not care
to raise itself from Edith's bijsom, or
from Mr. OldenshaVs cheek. She
hadn't any pain, she always said,
only she was tired. ' Me play to-
morrow, Edie; tired to-day,' she said,
but the playing morrow didn't come;
she faded.
Oto$§ Fwr^po9e$.
167
'Ma play vhfin Unole Bertie
oome borne/ ma another plea.
Warm days oame in March and
Tnurmer still in April— days of bright
air and oheering san« burodess and
windless; but Lily, ihocigb she
lingered, did not sally, nor did Amy.
Qertrade nursed Lily with the
fdllest devotion ; she bad heard how
the fresh barm bad happened,
throogh the talk of Jane, the ser-
Tant * My only comfort till my poor
Frederiok oomes home is to spend
myself for her/ she pleaded to £dith.
' She was always food of me, always
very |;ood to me.'
Edith stayed later and longer at
the Sea-wall Honse, as the days
lengthened, and the shadow deep-
oied, and tiie little faoe brightened,
as with light zefleoted from heaven
to oome.
'I believe yvm think my heart will
break when it comes/ said Mr.
Oldenshaw, one day, looking up
from the diild*s &oe, and meeting
^ wistfal longing of Edith's eyes.
Thoy were sitting together in the
sonset-sanshine in the window, Amy
on Edith's lap, the other children
Saiying in the room. Hour after
or that day the little one bad lain
still with closed eyes.
' I was longing with all my might
to be able to do anything to comfort
you/ Edith answered.
' Dear child 1 but I am comforted
always. And as to this little one, I
am glad she should be with her
mother. She won't take me after
ber» weary as I often feel ; I have
work to do/ glancing at the other
children. 'Those boys and those
girls hold me here. She said,
" James, try and live for their sake." '
Mr. Oldenshaw bad never spoken
so much as this of the dead to any
one before.
Edith could not see for tears for
many minutes. When her eyes were
clear again the light had faded off
Amy's fair locks, the sun had
dipped into the sea.
The child's lids stirred, then
closed; the other children played
softly, obedient to papa's finger,
which said, ' Amy is asleep.' Edith's
eyes were on tiie ohild's face, so
were Mr. Oldenahaw'a ; piesenUyhe
bent closer.
The lids were half raised : the olae
eyes seemed to look at him dreamily.
' Did Amy want papa?'
The father's ficKse was put dose to
the child's; then it looked into
Edith's; she ^led and thrilled and
clasped the little form closer; she
lifted the yielding hand and held it
to her mouth.
'Amy is very cold/ she said. 'Ill
move to the fire now the sun's
gone.'
' Shall we go and play in the hall,
papa, as Amy's asleep?' whispered
one of the boys, coming up on tip-
toe.
*Tes, dearboy, doP
They weni Edith knelt on the
rug, and chafed the little hands and
the feet, and talked softly to her pet
Presentiy she desisted and looked
blankly at Mr. 0 denshaw. He took
the child from her then, and she
sank down weeping, as if her heart
would break.
Mr. Oldenshaw left the room ; he
carried the chitd through Uie playing
children, who hushed as he passed
to his own room, to lay it on ms bed.
He had been told that death would
come like this; he did not rebel
against it He locked himself in
there— in communion with Qod and
the child's mother.
Edith knelt by the fireside, weep-
ing, weeping as if her tears would
never stay; and the children played
till the hall grew dark. Then tW
came round her.
'Amy is gone to her mother,
Mr. Oldenshaw's voice said from
the midst of them as they clustered
round Edith. ' It is sad for us
who are left to miss her, but it must
be happy for her, noce it is Qod's
will—the will of that Father who
loves His little ones more than any
earthly fiather can do.'
Then his voice failed him as the
awe-struck, weeping chihiren cama
round him. He cweased them —
comforting them, speaking of Amy
as taken home, to a happier home
than she bad known ytit - speaking
tenderly of death as a dear reet and
great good — ^>et not allnwing him-
self to speak wearily or denpisingly
of life to these young things, who
probably had length of years before
them.
i«e
Orosi Pufpoies,
EdHh put the little girls to bed
that night, and sat by tl^m till they
sobbed themselTes to sleep. Then
Mr. Oldenshaw took her home.
He sat hy their fireside a while,
talking gently to Lily, who was
much overoome by the news, not
for Amy's sake. Amy had gone
home, and Lily was often, in her
constant wearing pain, fall of long-
ing for the rest of snoh a going
home— not for Amy's sake, bat for
Amy's fBither's sake, whom Lily
loved, as snoh a natore as hers
ooold not help lovine each a one as
his. Lily's thin hana had been laid
on his, and he still clasped it as he
sat talking— of Amy's pretty ways
and pretty pathetic sayings.
' It is a blessed thing to think
that she has not soffered— that her
short life has been a happy life,
poor little lamb! If I loved Edith
for nothing else, I shonld love her
for her love to my Amy.'
By-and-by he went away, and lefb
three loving women sorrowing for
him— following him in their sor-
xowfal thonghts to the gieat Sea-
wall Hoose, to the side of the lovely
dead child.
' Has he had a letter ?' asked
Gertrade, by-and-by, ' from his
brother?'
'No, Ger. Why?' qnestioned
Edith, qoickly.
* I have heard from my hosband
—he wishes me to meet him on his
landing. He cannot yet make np
his mind to come here.'
'When does he come? Does he
come alone?'
' I have to oalcalate the time. It
will be next week, I think. Strangely
enough, he does not mention
Herbert'
' My master will hear in a day or
two, no donbt,' said Edith.
That title, given in jest, loving
jest, long ago, had come to be so
fitmiliar now tllltt she used it when
in most serious earnest.
A few days later Gertrude left
them, to go and meet her husband.
It was a hard parting between her
and Uly, though Gertrude assured
herself she should see Lily again.
Little Amy was buried. It was
pleasant that it was spring-time,
and the fresh churchyard grans full
of daisies. No letter firom Horbert
had come to the Sea-wall Hoose.
The day after Gertrade went
away, the day her hosband was ex-
pected to reach England, Edith
left lily asleep on her oooch in the
afternoon, and went out It was a
mild spring day, with a soft,
hovering, dew-like, yet penetrating
rain £ftlling incessantly. Edith
went oat of the garden and up the
road, to the spot where she had
parted from Herbert, havim taken
ENick her word from him. Here she
perched herself upon the wall, her
Seet resting upon a felled tree, and
sat waiting.
It was Herbert^s costom always to
walk down to the Sea-wall House ;
to leave any vehicle he might come
in at the upper village, tmd walk
down the road.
Was Edith waiting for him now?
She felt as if she was. Why should
she expect him now? Because she
felt him coming. She had come
out late in the afternoon : it began
to grow dim and dusk.
' I must go home soon, for Lily
will wake and want her tea.'
Edith had jost said this to herself
when— footsteps did not sound very
distinctly in the soft, damp road,
but that was his. She was sitting
back from the road, under over-
hanging branches. All her dresif
that was visible was a grey cloak,
the colour of the walL He camo
on, and did not see her; he was
about to pass her.
'Herbert!' The voice was low
and timid. He walked on.
'Herbert!' He paused, but did
not turn.
' Herbert !' Desperately now.
He turned, and saw her.
' I had to speak three times.'
'I heard the first time, but
thought that it was a voice in my
heart,' he said.
' I have been waiting two hours.'
' How so? Why did you expect
me?'
' A voice in my heart!' she said ;
then, 'Oh, Herbert! can you care
for me any more ? Can you forgive
me?' Her face lifted up.
He pushed back her hat and
looked into her eyes.
' I don't think I can care for yon
The Archery Lesson,
169
any more.' He said then, ' I care
for you so much, so entirely.'
She stepped back upon the tree
that had been her footstool, and
then from that eleTation was able
to throw her arms ronnd his neck.
' My Herbert— my Herbert Oh,
yon are so good to me !*
She did not soon get free again.
There were only the birds to see
them, and perhaps a sqnirrel or
two.
Then, when she did get free, her
hand was tucked nnder his arm,
held there with an energy that
seemed to mean to impress it there
for ever, and they went down the
road.
'Lily will want her tea,' said
Edith.
' How is Lily? I was afraid to
ask. Tonrs is a mourning dress, is
it not, Edith?*
' I meant to keep it covered for
fear of shocking yon. Yon will be
80 grieved, I know, dear Walter.'
'Is it little Amy?'
'Tes. What made yon gneas it?'
' I had a dream about her : and I
never thought that dear child would
live. Poor James 1 Now, how is
Lily?'
' I want you to tell me when you
see her. She is changed, I fear.'
A long silenoa
' Gertrude met Frederick ?'
'Yes. They have had a hard
time of it Now I hope they will
be happy.'
' Are you not going to scold me
or to laugh at me T
' Not now, my child; not now.'
She was silent after that
He went with Edith to the cot-
tage— waited while she prepared
Lily to see him, and then went in.
Lily brightened up so wonderfully
that Edith thought he had no
chance of judging of her state.
He did not stay long at the cot-
tage then, but went on to the Sea-
wall House.
Lily had a happy summer, and
did not know another winter.
THE ABGHEBT LESSON.
OUT in the meadow spreading green.
Under the summer sky.
While in its hazy depths the lark
Sang, hidden from the eye, —
What should we do but h'nger lon^.
My cousins three, and I ?
Fair were those cousins three who made
My happiness that day ;
Bright-eyed, and rosy red of Up
And ankle-neat were they;
And if their laughter or their words
Were gayest, who might say ?
As easy were it to assign
Distraction absolute
To lightly peroh'd coquettish hat
Or heart-enslaving boot, —
Fatal to one who*d teach the young
Idea how to shoot!
That was my too-delicious task.
The Fates would have it so ;
The secret of the flying shaft
The Graces sought to know, —
Arrows in plenty to their hands
And but a single beau.
170 A Bun to ike SomA after OreaJtmre-OmforU.
Slow was the lesson whfle I B\m^
Oonflicting thoughts to chase:
' Which was the dnintier of the thxae?
Which had the fairer face?
And which among them drew the b^w
With most bewitching graoe ?*
Betwixt the claims of lair and fiur
'Tib tortnre to decide.
Doabt not in Ida's happj Tale
Distracted Paris tried
Between the rival goddesses
The apple to dinde.
Yenns was lovely, Jono grand,
Minerya had esprit ;
Twas croel to refuse the prize
To either of the three.
How to award that prisEe— my heart —
I know bewildered me.
It was a day when loveliness
To all aroand us clings ;
Bright was the shining meadow-grass.
The insects' jewelled wings ;
The very target golden glowed,^
A planet with its rings!
And happily the sunny hours,
Sacred to beauty, fled'
Hardly more swiftly through the air
The feathered arrows sped ;
Life's brightest blossoms thus are bom, —
Thus soon their sweetness shed.
And when, at last, the sport was done.
The merry lesson taught,
I deemed the triple Graces still
With equal beauty fraught:
Yet one— the Yenus— held my heart.
Yielded in secret thought.
W.S.
I
A BUN TO THE SOUTH AFTER CEEATURECOMFOBTS.
T is a mistake to suppose that may care to know how to traverse
because a thiug is well known a it with ease. We are not afraid of
description of it will be devoid of the reproach of epicurism, oa ao-
interest. Witness the amusement count of noting creature-comforts,
we derive from the accounts of or their absence ; we bear no rela-
their travels in England given by tionship to the personages in novels
foreigners. Our curiosity is excited who appear to live without either
ifonly to see how a new pen will treat eating or drinking, and are rarely
an old topic. We therefore make reported to sleep in a bed. The
no apology for relating a common- first of creature -comforts is health,
place railway journey across well- And indeed, as health, pleasure, and
trodden France. Those who have amusement were the main objects
performed it in their way will see of the trip, it would be incon^^istent
now we perform it in ours ; those and ab.^urd to omit all mention of
to whom the ground is still fresh their attainment.
A Bnm to ihe Soidh nft&r Or^aJtnre^Jmfark.
ITl
By 'fte fikmth' — an indefinite
expresdon — is meant neither the
fioathem hemisphere, nor the
equator, nor the toopio of Oprioora,
nor the antuotio circle, but simply
what the Freneh caU ' le Midi/ that
part of their ooontry which borders
the Mediterranean and the frontier
of Spain. It is used loosely, exactly
as in Scotland ' going sonth' means
proceeding to any pui of England ;
and there is at least as mnch dif-
ference between the dimate, the
prodnctions, and the people of the
Midi and the northem regions of
the continent, as there is between
those of North and Sonth Britain.
The blessed railway now renders
the Midi accessible to numbers to
whsm it was formerly absolutely
closed. The busy man, who could
not spare the time, the invalid, who
could not bear the long weariness
of diligence-trayelling, are wafted
thither smootlily and speedily by
rail. By land, we can almost beat
the swallow; it is the sea only
which claps a drag on the swiftness
of our migrations. We, therefore,
for the information of our friends,
record the ways, and doings, and
times of railroad trains, especially
as in several respects they differ
from our own. It may save them
some trouble in studying and
searching Bradshaw, 'Le Train,'
or ' L'Indicateur des Chemins de
Fer,' to be told how we went on our
way rejoicing. If th^ disapprove
our 8ti^;es and our halting-places,
th^ can fcame a time-table of their
own which suits them better ; but
they may still like to listen to our
commentary on the capabilities of
the Bailway Guides.
We mention prices, distances, and
quantities, in the moneys, weights,
and measures of the country, as the
simplest way of conveying practical
information. Of what use is it to
reduce to pounds, shillings, and
pence, payments that have to be
made in tencs and centimes? or to
speak of mOes on roads that are
measured by kilomdtres? A very
little experience and practice en-
ables the mind to appreciate and
form a correct idea of the values of
the French decimal, or metrical,
sybtem of moneys, weights, and
measures. Briefly, let the intend-
ing traveller remember that, ap-
proximately, twenty-five firanos are
equal to a pound [^gold twenty-five
franc pieces are bemg corned, which
will thus be equivalent to our son^
reign]; that twenty francs make a
napul^n; that a franc, tenpenoe,
is twenty soub, or halfpence. The
centimes puzzle strangers moat;
yet they are exceedingly simple,
and must be understood, because
all legal small payments are made
in tbem, not in sous, alliiough sous
are still as currant in popular lan-
guage as they are in the shape of
coin. All articles for sale in shops
and stalls must be ticketed in francs
and centimes, not in sous. At
railways, you are told your ticket
costs so many fkancs and so many
centimes, not sous. A franc, then,
is one hundred centimes; half a
fraoo is fifty centimes; fifteen sous,
or three-quarters of a franc, is se-
venty-five centimes; and when you
are charged five centimes for any«
thing, you pay them with a sou.
The comparison of centimes with
English pence is of the easiest One
penny, or two sous, is ten centimes ;
thirty centimes is threepence ; forty
centimes, fonrpence, and so on;
sixty-fiTo centimes is sixpence half-
penny; ninety-fi^e centimes, nine-
pence halfpenny, fto. Ac.
All lengths are measured by
metres, and kilometres, or thousands
of metres. The mdtre is oonsider^
ably more than a yard, making an
important difference in buying cloth,
&o. It is subdivided into one hun-
dred oentimdtres, less than half an
inch each, and further (for mioro-
metrioal purposes) into millimdtres
about our line, though not exactly.
The mdtre n the standard of length.
Note that all divisions of standards
in this ^stem are derived from the
Latin; all multiples, from the
Greek. A kilometre is considerably
less than a mile. In cold weather,
and when in good health, by step-
ping oat briskly, I can walk a kilo-
metre in ten minutes; at my or-
dinary pace I do it in twelve or
thirteen. A kilometre in a quarter
of an hour is quite leisurely walk-
ing, whereas a mile in a quarter of
an hour is very good walking. Four
172
A Bun to the South after Oreaiiwte-'Comforte.
kOorndtroB make a leagae, whiob is
an easy way to reduce tihom to miles,
a leagne being equal to two miles
and a halt Thus, £rom Paris to
ManeilleB is 863 kilometres, or 216
leases, minus a kilometre, by rail.
Twioe 216 is 433, half 316 is 108;
add the double and the half toge-
ther, and you get 540 miles as the
railway distance from Paris to Mar-
seilles. Now there is a wonderful
post train (No. 3) which leaves
Paris at 7*15 in me OTcning, and
reaches Mareeilles at 11*42 next
morning, allowing, so say the time-
tables, half an hour at Lyons for a
comfortable supper or breakfieust,
whichever you like to call it, at
4-32 in the morning. The fiire is
96 fr. 65 c, a trifle under four
l^unds. Compare this with the
time and expense it used to cost to
make the same trip by diligence,
still more by posting, and the differ-
ence in the raoilities for tiayelling
at the beginning and towuds the
dose of the present century will be
so striking as to be weakened by
fdrther comment. It) allows what
may be called the immediate trans-
port of persons short of time, or of
invalids, from the north of France
to the Mediterranean shore.
An objection that may be made
to this train by persons visiting
France for the first time is, that,
travelling by night, they do not
see the country; but as it leaves
Lyons at 5*2 in the morning, they
get the valley of the Rhone, the
portion of the route by far the best
worth seeing, under the eflldctB of
sunrise and early mom, which in
summer are indescribably beauti-
ful ; and they look down upon the
vast Etang de Berre, and make the
descent to the sea, amidst the
splendours of approaching noon.
In any case, if rapid change of place
be the object, some pivt of the
distance must be traversed by nighi
There is an express train (No. i)
which leaves Paris at the conve-
nient hour of eleven in the morning ;
but it leaves Lyons at 10*45 ftt
night, reaching Marseilles at 6*25
next morning, and whisking the
traveller throagh the Rhone valley in
the dark, although he will have had
the pleasure of a peep at Burgundy.
Whatever train you take, the
clearing of enormous distances in
this way is open to the common
objection applicable, in fact, to rail-
way travelling in general, that you
leave much unseen along the way.
On the present line, for instance,
Dijon is picturesque, has a marked
individuality, and is full of histo-
rical interest, while Lyons is really
a magnificent city, taking rank aa
one of the cities of the world. One
is the hale representative of the
pa8t» the other a fine example of
present prosperity. Both have the
mg in the comforts, conveniences,
and luxuries of life, attainable by
purses of moderate dimensions.
!but there are things which it is
impossible to reconcile and combine ;
you cannot be in two places at once ;
you cannot at the same time travel
quickly and leisurely. Going ex-
press, you cannot poke and pry into
tiie same amount of detail as if
you traversed France, as we have
done in old times, with the same
sturdy pair of horses.
To complete our sketch of French
measures: the litre is the standard
of capadly for dry things as well
as for liquids ; for wheat and other
gnin, as well as for wine, beer, and
milk. In &ct, why should barley
and oats need a different measure
to ale and porter? The litre is less
than an English quart, being one
pint, and seven-tenths, and a frao-
tion, but is a sufiicient allowance of
wine for a man to take at a sitting,
and is sensibly more than an or-
dinary wine bottle. Drink, however,
is sold by measures having other
popular names. A canette is a mug
or pot of beer containing a litre ; a
canon is a small glass of beer ; a
chojye is a large glass. A chopine is
about a pint of wine. In the Pari-
sian wine shops you have the ^tier
and the demi-setier. The spread of
beer about France has introduced
the hock; hoch-bier being not any
particular kind of beer, but beer
sold by the glassful or bockf ul.
The standard of weight is the
gramme, twenty-eight of which,
three-tenths, and a fraction, are
equal to our ounce avoirdapois.
A thousand grammes, or a kilo-
A Bm to Oe SatOh after Oreatnare'ComforU.
173
gramme, aie equal to two pounds,
two-tenthfi, and a fraction, aToirdn-
pois. Conflequently, the demi-kilo-
gramme is the French xepieBentatiye
of the English pound, only hearier,
being a notable and agreeable im-
proyement when meats, froits, &c.
are bonght in qnantity. Kilo-
gramme is cnrrentfy abbreviated to
kilo, and demi-kilogramme to demi-
kilo. The latter is popularly called
a pound; and when articles are
ticketed in shops, according to law,
so much the demi-kilo, you may
speak of them as so much the
pound. In French of the old regime,
before the Bevolution, francs are
called livres, and the expression is
still retained by many old &milies
and persons daimiug connection
with tnem. Thus, when they speak
of people haying so many thousand
' livres de rente,' they mean, not so
many thousand pounds but so many
thousand francs of income— a won-
derful difference. Note tiiat livre,
a pound, is feminine, une livre, while
livre, a book, is masculine, tin livre.
Consequently, asking for un livre de
yiandes, would be requesting, in
yery bad French, a hook <f meats,
Andjthat is all we will trouble you
with about moneys, measures, and
weights, except to add that the
French are not blessed with the
confusion of troy, avoirdupois, and
apothecaries* weights. Everything
is weighed alike l^ the granmie, ite
subdivisions, and ite multiples.
Diamonds, perhaps, may be still
weighed by carate ; but they are not
articles of daily necessity.
Anybody can find his way to
Paris, and everybody may discover
there hotels suited to his wante and
his pocket For those merely pay-
ing a visit to the place called by M.
Felletan 'La Nouvelle Babylon,'
and not proceeding further, the
situation of the hotel does not
matter much, provided it be suit-
able in other respects. But for
the traveller on the move, especially
if he has 'early to rise,' in order to
be punctual, if not wealthy and
wise, it is important that his hotel
should not be too £Eur from the
station from which he has to start.
Now the traveller going south may
reasonably regret that the great
migority of hotels are in the central,
western, and northern parte of Paris,
while there are very £9W in the
neighbourhood of the stetions of
the Lyons and the Orleans rail-
ways. To meet this want, I see
advertised, but have not tried,
' Grand Hotel du Commerce, en
&oe la Gare de Lyon, 13, Rue Tra-
versi^, coin de la Bue de Beroy.
Excellente teble d'hdte & prix mo-
dern. Service dans les chambres.'
We have tried inns in consequence
of seeing them advertised, and have
had good reason to be satisfied with
them. There is also at 14, Bue de
Lyon, pr^ la Gaie, the ' Hdtel de
rUnivers, Caf6-Besteurant^tenupar
Malveau. Cet ^teblissement se re-
commando particuli^rement a Mes-
sieurs les Yoyageurs par la modidt^
de ses prix et par les soins apportes
dans le service.' Chambers from
I fr. 50 c. upwards. The reader can
venture upon either of these upon
his own responsibility. Having de-
cided not to rise early, we went to
an unpretending central hotel
It will be remembered that» this
summer, heat set in, throughout
great part of Great Britain and
France, if not the whole, on Sunday,
the 6th of June, or thereaboute,
after a dull, rainy, and sunless May,
making practically the sudden tran-
sition of a plunge from a cold into a
hot-air bath. In many districte,
nevertheless, cold weather returned
soon afterwards.
On Monday, the 7th, we left the
Channel coast for Paris. Our se-
cond-class carriage was an approach
to an oven, from the sunbeams ^ur-
in^; on the top. This inconvenience
might easily be obviated by a fieJse
or double roof a few inches above
the real one, with the intervening
space left open for the air to circu-
late or flow between. But this in-
crease of the passengers' comforts
would cost the company a certain
outlay, without any appreciable re-
turn. If the summer tnmc increased
in consequence, they would surely
attribute it to some other cause.
But raQway carria«[es are often hot,
at storting, from having been left
in the sun with the windows closed
to keep out dust, but keeping in
what till lately was called caloric.
174
A Bm to Oe StmA €^ Ckmhure-ComfartB.
Although double loob in sammer
woald bo tonie expense, shade for
keeping eanriages oool might sorely
be fonnd ai most railway stations,
for little or nothing.
Bat however hot it may be when
yon set oat for the sonth, never fail
to take yonr wann thin^ with yon
all the same. Even m snmmer
there aie times and plaoes when yoa
will be glad of them-— daring gosts
of the mistral and other wiods, at
high elevations, and at night I
have canght tio dolorenz (not cbro-
nie, hai^uy,bat safficiently doloioos
for the time) by crossing the Apen-
nines lightly dressed, on a box seat,
in sommar time; and I onoe got
a nasty toothache at Nice, from
beiog (3ad aooording to, not what
I saw, bat what I had heard of the
dimats.
We 'deaoended,' as the French
81^— not to make a mystery where
none is needed— at the H6tel de
Rooen; bat, as there are several
H6tets de Boaen in Paris, we add
that oars, kept by M. Lambert, is
Ma 13, Boe Notre Daxoe des Yio-
toires. It is a oaiet hoase; can
dine only a limited nomber of gaests
at its table dlidte, and retains the
good old-ftshioned oastom of the
master of the hoose himself doing
the honoors of the meal, and carv-
ing the joints before yoor eyes. We
confess that, when the sixe of the
party render it possible, we greatly
prefer this mode to having them cat
np at a side table by waiters, and
distribated bit by bit, so that yoa
have often little choice of slices or
joints, of &t and lean, of well-done
or nnder-done, and sometimes no
other choioe than Hobson's. Now,
if people like to have a choice in
anything, it is sarely as mach in
regard to what they eat as to what
they love. It is no more pleasant
to have victaala forced apon as,
than companions or wives.
Althooffh the dinners here are
simple, the cookery is ezoelleni
Soon after oar aixival, and the wel-
come dostings and washings that
immediately followed, we sat down
to tapioca soap ; boiled fowls, with
mashroom saace ; green peas ( Jone
7th); roast beef, new potatoes,
salad; ooream cheese, strawberries;
and sweet biseaitsu Charge 3 francs
per head, inolading half a bottle
each of good ordinary wine. If
more is called for, it is sapplied at
therataof ifr. socthebottle. At
night, in tidy bedrooms, we foand
that real treat and comfort, a large
square pillow on which yoa can res^
not merely yoor head, bat— like a
handsome dliah of cod reposing on
its parsley-ganiished napkin— yoor
honoored and handsome head and
shoalders. We folly intend, on oar
retam, again descending at the
Hdtel de Bonen— if it has room for
as ; which reminds me that it will
be pradent to write to that e£Eiect a
lew days beforehand.
The next day showed as some of
the last new pranks in Paris. First,
there were tne street velocipedes;
but whether the velocipedes paid
the young men for riding them, or
whether the youn^ men paid the
velocipedes for bemg ridden, our
minds up to the present are still in
doubt Then there were the water
velocipedes, on a branch of the lake
in the Bois de Boulogne— ingenious
certainly, and effectual, if you could
guarantee water never to be rougher
than in a wash-hand basin. It is not
mine to describe a young gentleman
in white ducks, perched on a saddle
between a couple of canoes, working
treadles or pedals with his feet,
which turn a wheel between the
canoes resembling the miniature
paddle of a steamboai One of
your artists, in some Parisian sketch,
will do the work more effectually
than I can. And then there were
the young women, pretty and plain,
who seemed in sodi a hurry to
adopt the Bernese costame that ao-
curaoy was sacrificed to expedition
and expediency.
Pleasing is the boaquet of six
feathered fountains in the Ohamps
Elys^, the water being so finely
divided as to have the effect of
marabout plumes stack upon a
lady's green velvet head-patch. I
use the word advisedly, for bonnets
and hats have waned almost to
nothingness. If they are not to be-
oomeextinct— whichbonnet-makers,
not to say bonnet wearers, will
never allow— their next phase must
be a waxing one, nntil liiey attain
A fim io a« SoA afier CreotMre-OomfoHs.
175
perliftpe the proportkmB of forty
yean aga Of the lows and emeates
BafafleqaenUy reported at that date
ve saw and heard absolutely no-
thing; only eveiybody was crazily
numing liter seeond editions of
every evening journal, to see how
the elections were terminating ; bat
we selfishly asked, ' What is that to
us?* Keverthelessy we were not
sorry when Fame's trmnpet told ns
that the 'ineoonaileable' socialist
seamps were onsted, and that Paris,
oome to her senses again, really did
prefer reform to revoIutiQn.
Our jooney, we repeat, begins
at FiuJa A halt there of fonr-and-
twent^ hoars had allowed a slight
glance at the latest phase of that
eyer-ohanging 'capital. We rarely
travel by mfgbi, becanse it is prao-
tioally throwing a veil over the tee
of nature, as fiu: as one's self is
concemed; nor do we care to read
in a carnage, railway or other,
althoagh we sometimes write ; pre-
ferring to look out of window as
the panorama flashes by, and to
chat, if any dhattable person is
present, or, in a third-class car-
riage, to look on and listen, on the
nnavoidable condition of smelling
bad tobacco and worse ludfers.
Nevertheless, in the present in-
stance, we oetermined to take the
ilBtmoQS train No. 3, and stride to-
wards the South with seven-league
boots. We all of us, the healthy
as well as the sick, wanted change
complete— mora complete than the
thd comjfUt of Flaris hotels, which,
comprismg only bread and batter
and tea, makes a very incomplete
breakfast for a person blessed with
an appetite. We wanted fresh fields
and pastares new; that is, vege-
tables and fruits not yet to be had
in the North— tomatos, aubergineB,
and what not, with apricots and
peaches and plums innumerable
in due succession. We wanted,
before it was quite too late, to in-
hale the perfume of the blossoming
vinea One of our medical advisers.
Doctor Instinct, had prescribed a
course of fresh ripe figs, analogous
to the Qerman grape cure; and in
the South tiiey are to be had by
the barrowfuL They remind you
of Horace's peasant who preased
his friend to eat them, because 'to-
morrow they will be given to the
pigs.' At Pau I once asked a fruiir
woman how she sold her fii^B.
'Fifteen for a sou.' It was impos-
sible to bargain or cnimplaiu of Ihe
price. At Bordeaux I afterwards
put the same question. 'The
season is advanced,' the vendor ex-
plained. 'They axe very fine, and
figs are getting scarce. I cannot
let you have them for less than four
sous the dozen.' It was not worth
while to deprive oneself of the last
fig of summer for so reasonable a
price.
We wanted the dry, bitter pun-
gency of the Mediterranean instead
of the mild, relaxing moistness of
the Channel. We wanted the moun-
tain instead of the plain, the self-
sown forest instead of the wheat-
field, the leaping cascade instead
of the slow canal. Above all, we
wanted the daughters of fire, the
Pyrenees, older than the Alps, with
their mystic thermal waters stream-
ing up from below and their floods
of vivifying light pouring down
from the firmament So;, instead of
frittering away time and mon^ on
the road, we begged train No. 3 to
carry us straight to Provence.
With time at our disposal, we pre-
ferred to spend it on the shores of
the transparent tideless sea and by
the banks of the ' gaves' or moun-
tain streams which run liquid dia-
mond and sapphire.
For travellers going seoond-dass
by omnibus trains the long, weary
pull is from Paris to Lyons. It
may be divided into two days by
leaving Paris at 7*0 in the morn-
ing, to reach Bij/aa at 5*11; and
by leaving Dijon at noon 23 to
reach Lyons at 7*15. This involves
on the first day early rising— un-
welcome to ladies and not always
relished by gentlemen. It may be
avoided by splitting the distance
into three — thus: Leave Paris
noon ao; reach Tonnerre 6*27;
leave Tonnerre noon, 59; reach
Beaune 6*46; leave Beaune 1*30
afternoon; reach Lyons 7*i5« Lyons
is full of excellent hoteliB of various
daises. For economy, we have
tried the Hdtel Duraad et Si Nizier,
which gives bedroom, fareakfaat, and
176
A Bvn to Ae 8wlh after Creaktr&'Oomfarti.
diimer (wine inolnded) for dz tencs
per day, and were well satisfied
with what we got for the money.
A great recommendation, in so large
a dty, is that the chambers are on
tiie first or second floors.
My womankind adopted a pre-
cantion for the night, which others
under like drcmnstances will do
well to consider. For stays they
snbetitated flannel jackets, aflfbrd>
ing eqnal warmth and greater ease.
Stays are no longer what they were
— containing pounds of iroo, whale-
bone, and wood. The bask of a
pair of stays was once a formidable
weapon, with which an injured
female might severely punish her
ii\jurer. Years ago I witnessed a
bedloon ascent; the occupants of
the car were a lady and a gentle-
man. The balloon only just refused
to rise, and it was OTident that it
required but little to alter the equi-
librium. The gentleman, before
the public, relieyed himself of coat
and shoes; the lady retired, and
took off her stays. Thus lightened,
the balloon rose majestically in the
air; that is, slowly and steadily.
Modem stays are not like those,
but still they are a confinement
and an inoonyenience to a certain
extent.
Not very many passengers travel
by this rapid express-train No. 3,
except at the season when human
swallows are flitting, on golden
wings, to their winter quarters.
To be able to get into it all you
must iake your ticket for some
place beyond Lyons. So by good
luck and the paucity of passengers
we get a carnage all to onrselyes.
Darkness comes on late and day
breaks early at this time of year,
which lEdiortens the tedium of the
night journey. By the way, what
a pretty name for a girl is the
Damsh ' Dagmar,' or Daybreak 1
The French and Latin Aurore and
Aurora are not to be compared with
it. If ever I were presented with
another female infant — which I
hope never to be; though nobody
knows what he may come to^and
she found &your at first sight, I
might perhaps have her called Eos
as an experiment, omitting the
' rhododactylos' as much too long.
On a railway, by night, you can-
not sleep, but only dream of things
wise or foolish, of people good or
bad, of events real or imaginary,
but all equally worrying and de-
structive of true repose. Better
than the continuance of such
troubled slumbers is the praise-
worthy appearance of the early-
nain^ sun, showing you the mists
hangmg over the lowlands, the
distant villages sparkling on the
hills, the notable advance of vege-
tation, and the new flowers and
fruits which you see to-day but
which you did not see yesterday.
Those skeleton trees, looking like
bits of winter stuck into the midst
of spring, are neither dead nor
taking the repose indulged in by
tropical trees duriog the hot dry
season. They are unfortunate mul-
beny-trees stripped of their leaves.
We are in a silk-producing region.
The green, rounded, pudding-
shaped ^hills to the right are the
outposts of the once volcanic dis-
trict of Auvergne. That tall &r-off
mountain to the left is Mont
Yentoux, which we may render
Mount Windy without great inac-
curacy, the most westerly sunmiit
of the Alps. The last time I saw
it, one ^fine October, its top was
completiely covered with snow. It
has now only broken ribbons of
dirty white, which are partially
veiled by the morning mists. We
reach Avignon nicely in time to
make ourselves tidy for the table
d*h6te breakfast; after which the
womankind betake themselves to
bed.
Tourists venturing down to the
South should be prepared to meet
with a curious meteorological phe-
nomenon. The preparation consists
in laying in a stoc^ of veils, green
spectacles, goggles, light woollen
mufflers, and other appliances that
protect you from dust and pene-
trating winds. The phenomenon is
the mistral, a stream of air which
has undergone a peculiar process.
Blowing from the Atlantic as a
warm, moist west wind, it passes
up the valley of the Loire. In the
lofty uplands of Farez and Auvergne
it is cooled and robbed of great ^ut
of its moisture. Then, pouring
A Bun to the South after Creature-Comforts,
177
down into the Talley of the Bhone,
it is slightly wanned up again, and
still farther dried by the warming.
It is occasionally so violent as to
nproot trees and unroof houses,
knock down elderlies, and blow-
your teeth out of your head. Hence
the jingling Latin triplet :—
* Avenlo ventosa .
Sine vento veneno^ ;
Cum yento faslldloba.*
' Avignon hu breeaes
That give yoa the sneezi^s.
But if there's no breez?^
Look out for dleeaaea ;
If plenty of breezes,
For dust, that displeases.'
Any one producing a better trans-
lation shall receive a crown of bay-
leaves, to flavour sauce with.
We will not find fault with the
breezes of Avignon. Daring our
short stay they rendered a broiliug
sun bearable, and converted op-
pressive heat into a delightful sti-
mulant. It is paradoxical, but true,
that you feel yourself freshened up
and invigorated by a rather gusty
stream of warm atmospheric air.
Nevertheless, when it blows so
strong that you cannot hold an
umbrella against it and the dust,
it becomes rather inconvenient;
that, however, is only a zephyr.
From another specimen we had of
Avignon's windiness it would re-
quire a rather imavoidablo neces-
sity to make us take up our resi-
dence there.
As far OS my own experience is
concerned in going South, in tho
direction of Spain, after leaving
Lyons there are no bearable second-
class hotels, or there is a great dijQi-
culty in finding them and risk in
trying them. I mean hotels where
you can be wholesomely fed and
cleanlily bedded in an unpre-
tentious style at a moderate ex-
yense. Such hotels abound in the
northern region of France. They
exist also in such places as Mar-
seilles, Nice, and perhaps Mentone,
in consequence of the inunense
competition there. I remember
once being well (though not par-
ticularly cheaply) treated at Orange,
north of Avignon— Hotel de la
Posto, if I remember rightly. Other-
wise, generally, the only eafe course
VOL. XTI. — HO. XCIT.
is to go to the best hotel in the
southern towns, and pay their
prices, renouncing all attempts at
economy. At those I am about to
mention the charges are not ex-
cessive and the treatment exceed-
ingly good and liberal. The most
unsatisfactory set of hotels I know
(except that — to give a certain
personage his due— I have never
found in them uncleanly or in-
sectiferous beds) lie in the Italian
direction after quitting Marseilles.
Swiss blood, more or less inter-
mixed with French, mostly flows
in the veins of the proprietors, who
keep up a fraternal correspondence
amongst themselves, and send you
on from one to another with such
strict instructions where you are to
go to that it requires a certain
amount of strong-mindedness to
break loose from the trammels of
the brotherhood. I know none of
these igentry west of Marseilles, and
have no wish to make the discovery
that they have extended themselves
in that direction. I am not writing
of the line of which they have got
possession; and of course could not
name their houses if I were. Their
charges are high, with plenty of
'bougie,' 'service,' &c.; but their
distinguishing characteristic is that,
for this, you get scanty and Bar-
mecidal fare ; they contrive to feed
you on air, or on things looking
like food inflated with air. They
give you your dinner without your
victuals; that is, with little scraps
01 nothing at all, made to pass for
'plats,' or dishes; and when you
have devoured all your bread, to
supply the vacancy, after dining,
you are perfectly ready to dine
again. Go to the best hotels in my
South, and you will get none of
that.
At Avignon, we went to the Hotel
d'Eurppe, a most respectable, al-
most a religious house, admirably
conducted by Madame Fierron, a
widow lady. Of its liberality you
can judge by the following bills of
fare. 'A nice little dinner,' 'an
elegant dinner,' 'a capital d^er,'
' a jolly good dinner,' are vague ex-
pressions which merely indicate the
speaker's appreciation of the meali
He may have been in unusual good
N
178
A fittii /o ike S<niik after Creature^Comforts.
humonr, or with an extra sha^ ap-
petite, and so have landed the feast
beyond its roal ments. Bat a bill
of lue, with the annotation, 'well
cooked and well served/ allows the
candid reader to ezeroiBe his im-
prtial jadgment Besides whioii,
bills of fare, while recording peat,
aie saggestiye of f ntuze entertain-
moDts.
Take one day's regimen. Bieak-
£Mrt Twine the general beverage; we
aakea for tea, and had it) :
Oold slioed ham (excellent) and
Aries sancisson, a sort of Bologna
or pdany sansage ;
Petits pates; little patties; ladies'
monthfuls ;
CkAd roaat fowl ;
Sotiloped fresh water crawfish ;
Omelette of haricots verts or green
French beans;
Broiled matton chops, fried po-
tatoes;
Dessert (taken at breakfast as
well as at dinner), strawberries,
'Cherries (two sorts), raisins, Boqne-
fart cheese, sweet bisenits.
Dinner: ricepotage;
Litlde patties ;
Grey mnllet boiled, with mnsh-
room sauce;
Boast fillet of beef and pickled
gherkins ;
Boast leg of lamb and plain-boiled
potatoes;
Fricandean of veal;
Boast dncks, with green peas ;
Asparagus;
Salad, cheese ;
Oabinet pudding, and sponge cako
witii whipped cream ;
Dessert : strawberries, cherries,
dried fruits, and biscuits.
Each of the foregoing, being
served separately, might be said
to constitute a course.
With another sample of the Hotel
d'Europe's dinners, we will drop
that subject for the present On
the loth of June they gave us :
Clear vermioelli soup, with the
slightest suspicion of sf^Eron in it,
probably introduced into the ver-
micelli itself at the time of its
manufacture. In sulixy weather
tloB is an agreeable condiment, of
which the southerners are fond ;
Fresh tunny (a thick slice across
the tail end of the fish), boiled, gar-
nished with shred cos lettuce, and
accompanied by white Dutch sauce.
A novelty to most of us. The flesh,
pinkish while uncooked, is grey or
whitey-brown when boQed. Good,
with a salmon flavour, but still not
80 good as salmon, to which it is
compared, and even preferred, by
ultra-patriotic Frencnmen, Louis
Figuier to wit, in his ' Ocean World,'
translated by Messrs. Chapman and
Hall;
Tame rabbit, stewed Isown ;
Boiled fowl (which doubtless
helped to make the soup) with
green peas;
Braised beef;
Artichokes, buttered or oiled (we
did not taste them, as it is impos-
sible for stomachs of ordinary power
and capacity to take in everytning) ;
Boast fowls and kidney beans ;
CSabinet padding; sponge cake
and cream;
Dessert; strawberries, cherries,
cheese, biscuits.
An honest, substantial dinner
this, supporting the wayworn tra-
veller, and very different to the
four or five francs' worth of shreds
and nonsenses with which we have
been tantalised in the ever-to-be-
avoided hotels above alluded to.
Be it mentioned, however, that
Avignon enjoys an old-established
culinary reputatiim, which would
have been impossible had there
ever been any deficiency in quan-
tity, quality alone not sufficing to
satisfy the true French gastronome.
For whatever may be the current
belief. Frenchmen eat quite as much
as Englishmen; I should say con-
siderably more.
Avignon is south. The plague
of flies has begun. Sugar, dishes
of fruit, sweet biscuits, &c., are
protected from them by wire-gauze
covers, perhaps to prevent their
flying away with them bodily, by
combining their strength into a
joint-stock company. To repel
them, certain butchers' shops are
converted into huge wire-gauze
cages, whose entrance, for the ad-
mission of wingless two-legged cus-
tomers (on business only) is screened
by ample drooping nets or draperies.
The flies are undeniable and in-
evitable; even the horses' ears are
A Bun to the South efter Creaimre'Cloafmii.
179
«rmecl mgrnnst fheir attadkB by a
flort of batkins, or ear-gloveB, wbioh
encase thatezpresaiye feature of the
snimars head. Certainly, there are
flies, and no mistake ; happily, they
are not goats, mosqnitos, coasiiiB;
still less are they the insect enemies
who ftighten yon to death in a word
0f three letters : so we componnd
with the oload of flies, and bear
ihem.
Ayignon is sonth. The sun is
fierce, and deserres the honour of
being eneonntered by a white nm-
brella with a green silk lining. Bat
then there is the breeze, which to-
day muMt please ; moreoTer, we mnst
give the son some credit for those
most aromatic strawberries, those
bigarrean 'cherries, hard bnt hand-
some, those delicate green peas,
broad beans, Tast wMte onions,
French beans, and new potatoes, at
will. In most oases, there are com-
pensating or eztennating ciromn-
stanoes. Bat onr arrival at the
south is revealed by the nniveisal
snbstitation of curtains for doors,
and the frequent replacement of
glass windows by wooden shutters.
To escape the blinding glare of sun-
shine, whether reflected or direct,
dingy dens of gloomiest aspect are
made to serve for the occupations of
daily life.
Look at the mouth of that sombre
cavern; it is arohed with stone.
Within, lies Cimmerian darkness—
not having any dictionaries to refer
to, / don't know what that is. Do
youf — Obscurity impenetrable to
the naked eye, at fini But ap-
proach ; nay set one step within the
cave. As your organs get accus-
tomed to the gloom, there come
forth into visibility, not lions and
tigers, bnt less ferocious animals,
white, brown and black, which a
whinny and a neigh inform you
are horses; what seemed rocky
boulders are bundles of hay; and
the plashing cascade is no more than
the filliog of a pail at the water tap.
It is a meridional stable ; that is all.
Behold that other grotto, by no
means cool. By the same patient
mode of investigation you discover
sundry ovoid, annular, and fusiform
bodies heaped in groups or ranged
in rows. In the innermost recesses
of the grot ycm ^perceive a rvMy
subterranean glare, which is not an
outbreak of volcamc fire, bat the
dying embers of a baker's oven;
the strangely-shaped substanoes are
the loaves. And finally, the in-
creased sensibiliiy of your optic
nerves shows you the baker himself,
his wife, and his journeyman. De-
lighted at findmg those weM ap-
peonmces to be only the loeal cos-
tume of a useful trade, you Totreat
back into the hot glare again, and
make straight for the shady side of
the street. There, while you are
curiously gazing at some unmistak-
ably genuine copies of did portraits,
you are yourself as curiously inves-
tigated by their proprietress, «
wrinkled female head in the Pro-
vencal head-<b:6ss— a band of black
velvet ribbon bound round the head,
surmounted by a small lace crown —
not unbecoming to either old or
young; but I dont think you will
be quite so green as even to ask the
price of her ' antiquities.'
Most of these southern towns in-
close and conceal a sort of cmstaceo-
human life. The vitality lurking
within them is protected from ex-
cessive light and heat by a thick
calcareous envelope. Avignon has
a wafl^, whitey-brown look, though
not made of paper but of solid stone.
As becomes a city of the popes, it is
thoroughly mediaeval and southern
in its interior aspect, with all the
ground-floor windows strong iron-
barred and shuttered, to keep out
thieves and radiation. Doors, as I
have mentioned, are replaced in the
daytime by curtains, at the same
time admitting air and effectually
baffling prying eyes. In the lower
town, the houses have the Torkish
and the Arab look of all turning
their backs on the street Shops
there are none, or few and far
between. For them you must
mount to the narrow little streets
which kindly stretch sail-cloths from
house to house, to keep out the in-
trusive sunbeams. The stranger
will most easily reach them, hud,
through them, the strong- smelling
market-place, by crossing the little
Place du Change, funnily shaped
like an ill-made hour-glass, where
he may witness, and if he likes,
K a
180
A Bun to ike South after Crealure'Comforts.
adopt, the aoathem onstom of drink-
ing hot ooffee out of a beer-glass,
flimked by a cmet-full of brandy
ad libitum.
The monnmental wonder of Avig-
non is the old colossal palace of the
popes. Its huge nnoonthness is
overpowering. Below it is a le-
r table, partly-new square, with
theatre and some caf^s in it;
but to me, quite an eyesore (literally
so, from the dust sweeping through
it) is the long straight new street,
the Bue Bonaparte, starting out of
the square, like a ball shot from a
cannon's mouth, and hitting its
mark nobody knows wheie, after the
true Parisian Haussmann Deishion,
at least as Dbut as straightness and
persistence are concerned; no con-
sideration can turn it from its ob-
ject But in Avignon the construc-
tion of such a new-fSEtngled street is
like tacking a paltry bit of trumpery
new cloth on an old, once rich, but
now threadbare garment— a failure
and a nuisance, as well as an incon-
sistency. None but the crookedest
of streets can resist the blasts of so
gusty a climate.
As a general rule, if you are mis-
anthropically inclined and wish to
retreat into absolute solitude, you
have only to seek the public prome-
nade of a provinciid town. With-
out being prompted by any unsocial
motive, we climbed the grass-grown
steps and weed-covered slopes which
lead to the cathedral and the ac-
cent garden, and found the Dom des
Bochers of Avignon no exception to
the remark. Perhaps one reason
why people don't go there is the
fear of being blown away beyond
recovery. IVom whatever cause,
you might commit murder or sui-
cide there frequently without fear
of any observant eye to witness th&
deed. The situation is undeniably
fine, conunanding a grand sweep of
the Bhone and an intimation of its
approaching junction with the Du-
rance, and with Mont Ventouz loom-
ing hazily leagues away. But to
get a correct idea of the power and
magnitude of the Bhone itself, which
looks rather small and poor while
you are skirting it on the railway,
vou must cross it on the suspension
bridge— a pleasant promenade, but
purchased by that rarity in France,
atoll.
At four o'clock in the afternoon
of Thursday we had militaxy music
on the promenade which skirts the
left bank of the Bhone. Operatic
music — ^tbat is, music accompanying
and illustrating dramatic action—
when good is very charming; but
there is no purer or more harmonious
setting for music than the flow of a
river or the fall of a cascade. Both
move on smoothly and evenly to-
gether; and other strains as well a&
'Flow on, thou shining river/ ac-
cord well with the onward gliding
of a stream, when rapid enough,
as the Bhone is here, to be percep-
tible to the eye.
Travellers having half a day to
spare, and seeking shelter from the
arrows of far-darting Apollo, not to
mention a refuge from wind and
dust, will do well to spend it in the
Mus^ Calvet. There, amongst
other inveresting objects, they will
see Horace Yemet's two original
pictures from which the popular
print of Mazeppa bound to the
white horse and pursued by wolves
is taken. There is also the picture,
engraved and made popular at an
earlier date, of the Centaur teaching
yoimg Achilles to draw the bow.
E. S. D.
(Tohe continued.)
^^^^^^
181
THE MATEIMONIAL AGENT.
LONDON supplies the fashionable
districts of Paris with pick-
pockets—why, it is difficalt to com-
prehend, as I^nchmen, as a rale,
nave grater delicacy of touch thim
the broad-digited sons of Albion.
Paris, in retnrn, sends us clever
•swindlers of yarions types, whose
main field of action, however, appears
to be the Giiy anditspnrliens,po68ibly
because the western districts are too
oyerrnn by our native-born sharp-
•ers, who, spite of their undoubted
inventive genius, nevertheless rarely
seem to hit upon the same ultra-
refined way of fleecing particular
flections of the communi^ as then:
Parisian brethren practise with such
marked success.
The one imposition, on a grand
«cale, which flourishes in Paris, un-
restrained by the law, is the Matri-
monial Agency. One can under-
stand the immense field it has open
to it in a country like France, where
marriages are far more afiEdirs of the
purse than of the heart, and where
€very female servant, and every
shopgirl, even, saves up her 'dot'
as her only chance of obtaining a
partner for life. The most im-
portant of these agencies send out
their circulars quarterly to all the
Jiommes d'affaires in France ; and an
'extract from one of these documents,
that has accidentally come beneath
our notice, deserves to be given
verbatim.
' I entertain the conviction, mon-
sieur, that in your neighbourhood —
or at any rate among your ccmnections
— ^you will either know or chance to
hear of certain young ladies who
may happen to. be placed in the
•embarrassing position of not being
able to contract a suitable marriage,
<nther in accordance with their tastes
or their just pretensions. I venture,
therefore, to do myself the pleasure
«f furnishing you with an epitome of
those actual and seriously-disposed
parties of whom I have tiie honour
to be the intermediary.
' I. A foreign prince, well known
in the highest circles for his irre-
proachable manners and agreeable
physiognomy. He is thirty-four
years of age, and has from eight
hundred thousand to a million
francs of fortune^ with carriages,
horses, &a
* 2. A magistrate, thirty-five years
of age, and with an income of a
hundred thousand francs.
' 3. Several doctors, twen^-five
to thirty-five years of age, and pos-
sessingincomes ranging from twenty
to fifty thousand francs.
' 4* Numerous merchants, &c.,
from twenty-five to forty years of
age, with incomes varying from
twenty to thirty thousand francs.
' 5. Some "rentiers," fifom foriy
to fifty years of age, and with from
thirty thousand to a hundred thou-
sand francs income.'
This circular, curious in many re-
spects, has, however, nothing novel
about it It would be necessaiy
that one should never have looked
into a French newspaper to ignore
the various temptations to which
these high priests of Hymen make
a point of incessantly exposing a
who happen to be single.
The matrimonial agent, with whom
just now we are more particularly
concerned, invariably has on the
books of his establishment all that
can be wished for, and everything,
moreover, would appear to be of the
very best. There are blondes and
brunettes, short and tall, stout and
thin ones, of high birtii or high
connections, and of both sexes. He
has, in fact, all coIouib, all sizes, all
shapes, and all qualities. The price,
moreover, is not absolute; he will
permit us to bargain with him,
although he does not neglect to in-
form us that his extensive connec
tions assure an incontestable supe.
riority to his articles over those of
other establishments. His clientele
he informs us, comprises the elite of*
society only.
The originator of this singular
avocation has retired on the fortune
and the honours he derived from the
successftd pursuit of it, but his suc-
cessors, who continue to preach the
scriptural doctrine of increase and
multiply, do not appear to have been
equally fortunate in mating their
182
The MabrimotUdl Agent,
clients, for one sees the same adver-
tuement constantly repealed. 'It is
desired to marry a young lady, poft-
seesing thirty thonsaiid francs a year,
to en indiyidnal of an honourable
profession. Fortune lees a consideia-
tion than strictly moral conduct'
The advertisenifint occasionally
Taries, and one is enabled to make a
selection from a thousand francs a
year up to two hundred thousand,
from aged fifteen to aged seTenty.
Address, poet paid. No. — , Avenue
Montaigne.
One day, a representative of that
common class of young men who ex-
haust all their patrimony during the
first few years of their liberty, pre-
sented himself, over head and ears
in debt, to one of these matrimonial
agents, having come to extricate
himself from his difficulties by
uniting himself to a pretended
dowry of three thousand francs a
year, a modest and probable enough
dowry. After a few preliminary ex-
planations, the agent asked him,
according to custom, for two hun-
dred francs fbr expenses, at which
the disabused suitor shrugged his
shoulders, and naively observed —
' Is it likely, I ask you, that I
should think of tying myself to a
wife if I was in possession of a couple
of hundred francs V
No reply could be made to so
pertinent an observation, and the
negotiation, as a matter of course,
fell to the ground.
Bachelors who have lost every-
thing need a dowry to refill their
pur^e, and a nurse for their rheu-
matism. They notice one morning
in the newspaper, between the
* Eau de melisse des Carmes ' and
' Machines silendeux a ooudre,' an
advertisement of a lady wishing to
marry, and who is handsome, young,
witty, modest, and amiable, and, best
of all, who is ballasted with thirty
thousand francs a year. Address (as
usual) No. — , Avenue Montaigne.
At least one individual out of the
thousands who read the advertise-
ment will be certain to think this
the very thing to suit him, and will
make a point of writing to the ad-
dress indicated. Two days afterwards
an answer arrives. With a trem-
bling hand he opens the enve-
lope, and with palpitating heart
devours the reply, the purport of
which, however, will simply be, that
' affiurs of this nature cannot be
discussed freely by correspondence.^
He is begged, therefore, to favour
the agent with a call at No. — ,.
Avenue Montaigne, and he shall re-
ceive further information. In con-
clusion he is assured that, having
been the first to reply to the adver-
tisement, a preference will be ac-
corded him.
The bureau of the agent at the
address indicated turns out to be in
a very fine house, all the wmdows
of which look into the street A
footman in livery introduces the
would-be bridegroom into a magni-
ficent ao^on furnished with exquisite
tasto, and the open folding-doors of
which permit him to see on the right
and on the left what appears to be a
suite of splendid apartments. Every-
thing breathes of love and marriage ;
copies of Watteau's Isle of Gytherea
and Veronese's Marriage of Cana,
with kindred subjects, adorn the
walls. The timepiece is surmounted
by an amatory shepherd and shep-
herdess, above whom hover a pair of
billing and cooing doves. The can-
delabra are formed of torches of Hy-
men, Cupids gambol in the angles
of the ceiling, and the tables are
covered with books, all treating of
the one eternal subject, from the
loves of angels to the loves of plants.
And as if to complete the picture
a couple of pretty children, a
Cupidon and a Psyche, in knicker-
bockers and crinoline, are playing
upon the hearthrug.
A bell rings, and soon the agent
makes his appearance, with innu-
merable apologies for having kept
his visitor waiting, pleading the
numerous afOairs he has on hand as
his excuse. At the conclusion of
this exordium he wipes his brows
with an embroidered cambric hand-
kerchief; then rings the bell and
orders a basin of soup, which is
served to him in a silver bowl by
the servant who answered the door.
The agent expresses surprise at his
performing this duty—asks him
where Pierre, Joseph, and Fran9ois
are, to which the lacquey replies,
without a moment's hesitation, that
2%e Mainmomal Agent,
18a
fhe first has gone to the hank, the
seoond about the hex at the Oper%
and the third upon the business of
M. le Gomte, who called yesterday.
Hov should the visitor escape
being dazzled by such deceitful ap-
peaiancea-- for they are appearances
only ? the one footman he has seen
being Pierre, Joseph, Francois, and
himself, who, in fact, does everything.
The foregoing is the prologue;
now commences the comedy.
The agent: * Monsieur, will you
kindly explain the object of your
visitr
Thus called upon, the visitor
produces the letter he has received,
and at the same time hands the
agent his card, saying —
' I had the honour, as you will
remember, of writing to you on the
subject of the advertisement in the
''Figaro "of Wednesday last. When
can I be presented to the lady ?*
' Excuse me, but you are pro-
ceeding a little too fast; allow me,
first of all, to ask you a few ques-
tions. Have you any profession ?*
'No.'
'Any fortune?'
' Nothing to speak of: but I have
good expectations.'
' Umph ! How about your ante-
cedents ?*
' You are at liberty to make any
inquiry you think requisite.'
And so the conversation pro-
ceeds, kept up by the agent solely
with the object of measuring the
precise degree of intelligence which
his visitor— soon to be his victim —
possesses, and to satisfy himself
what precautions it is necessary
should be taken so that he may
not be too much compromised, in
the event of a subsequent explo-
sion. Suddenly he rises and pro-
duces a book of photographs ; refers
to the index, and opens the volume
at a particular page, ¥^ere he points
out the portrait of a handsome
young lady, whose attractions he
highly extols. His visitor cannot
resist admitting these eulogies to
be merited.
A moment of silence now ensues,
during which the pair eye each
other. The conversation is resumed
by the agent, who says, with an air
of perfect frankness^
' There is no need to go beaiiag
about the bush ; let us come at once
to the point. In the event of every-
thing being satisfactorily arranged,
my terms will be five per cent, upon
the dowry.'
' That is fisur enough.'
' Payable, mind, when yon re-
ceive it'
' I am perfectly agreeable.'
And in truth it would be the
height of ill-breeding to refuse to
pay Buefa a slender commission,
asked so courteously by a man who
procures you a fortune, of whioh
you stand so greatly in need, and,
as he assures you, a charming
bride, who, though not an object of
equal necessity, is still a treasure in
herself. The afi^oir is, therefore^
settled; but before proceeding fur-
ther, the agent requires to be in-
sured against his expenses for in«-
qulries^ messages, postages, &c.,
which seems reasonable enough.
These expenses vary according as
the suitor is more or less credulous
and the dowry large or smalL lii
the present instance, the agent asks
three hundred francs. ' For another
couple of hundred,' he adds, ' yon
may become a subscriber to my
estabh'shment for an entire yew,
which will give you the run of it,
and confer on you the right of bdng
E resented to all the eligible ladies I
ave on my books— and I have them
mounting up to sixty thousand
francs— within that period, until
you succeed in suiting yoursell'
The gull in the present instance^
being as mercenary as he is simple,
pays the five hundred francs, and
receives in exchange for his money
a memorandum, upon stamped
paper, setting forth the conditions
of the engagement, and for register-
ing which he is charged another ten
francs. Our would-be Benedict now
awaits with juvenile ardour the
moment when the first interview is
to take placa
In a day or two he receiveB a
letter from the agent, making an
appointment to present him, at
No. — , Avenue Montaigne. It ia
needless to say that he dresses him-
self with scrupulous care, bestows
the entire morning, in fact, upon his
toilet, and calte to mind all the more
ISi
The Matrimonial Agent,
gmcefal oompliments that he has
heard addressed to fiancees on the
stage. His part duly rehearsed, he
hastens to the appointment before
the presoribed time, and is ushered
into the drawing-room.
The agent is awaiting him, and
gives him a few hints respecting the
young lady's tastes ; she is musical, .
of course; is an entomologist, and
manages a three-wheel yelocipede
very giacefully, he is told. This
will guide him in his selection of
subjects for conversation.
The lady soon after arrives, es-
corted by her aunt, and is found to
answer all the expectations raised
by her portrait. She glances mo-
destly at her expected lord and
master, displays a pair of pretty
feet peeping beneath a coquettish
petticoat as she gathers her robe a
queue around her while seating her-
self, converses charmingly yet with
becoming diffidence, and indeed is
altogether fascinating. The aunt,
too, seems a very nice sort of a
person, and not too strict a chape-
rone. In due course the interview
comes to an end, and the ladies pre-
pare to take their departure ; when
the dupe proposes to the agent to
escort tiiem, but finds himself re-
strained— it would be indelicate at
this early period of their acquaint-
ance, he is told.
This, however, is' not the true
reason : the fiust is, the ladies do not
leave the house, and it is important
the dupe should not know this.
Niece and aunt are hired at so much
a day, and are clothed and boarded
into the bargain. They have every
description of toilette necessary to
their transformation provided for
them, and are of fair or dark com-
plexions, and quiet or coquettish in
their attiro, according to the tastes
•of different clients— the aunt, it
should be mentioned, has a suppo-
sititious ' dot 'of her own, sufficiently
large to tempt the cupidity of the
unwary. This facility of being one
individual to-day and another to-
morrow is not without its advan-
tages, in case tiiedupe should lodge
any complaint: for he would fail to
describe the woman accurately, and
the authorities would feel them-
selves embarrassed at the outset.
Every time that niece and aunt
are about to be presented t3 a client,
the footman sets the doo^bell ring-
ing with a broom; whereupon the
agent announces to his visitor that
they have arrived. After the first
interview, he insinuates, mildly,
that it would advance the negotia-
tion if they were asked to accept
of a breakfast, ' as at table one speaks
more freely, especially after a glass
of champagne;' and volunteers to
use his powers of peisuasion to in-
duce them to accept the invitation.
' If it can be managed,' he adds,
' you can then very wedl offer to
escort them home.' The agent gives
the dupe to understand that the
breakfast must take place at No. — ,
Avenue Montaigne, and proposes to
provide it for four people ror sixty
francs : ' which is dirt cheap,' he ob-
perves ; ' but as he has the wine in
his cellar he does not drive bargains
with friends.'
At breakfast the table is covered
with solid cold dishes, in the English
ftishion— a large joint of roast beef,
a ham, and a superb turkey. The
ladies partake of the hora-d'ornvres
only and the side dishes, and firmly
refuse when either a slice of beef or
turkey is offered them. It is the
same with the 'sweets,' simply be-
cause the principal dishes have, like
themselves, to be served up again to
other subscribers to the Matrimo-
nial Agency in the Avenue Mon-
taigne.
Under one pretext or another,
they manage to leave the table be-
fore the conclusion of the repast.
One of them finds herself indis-
posed, or the aunt has an appoint-
ment with the family notary, or, as a
lost resource, the agent desires a few
minutes' important conversation
with the dupe, who at any rate does
not see them home. After their
pretended departure, the agent,
while assuring him that everything
is progressing most favourably,
delicately insinuates that before
proceeding further it is absolutely
lequisite to send to his native place
to obtain precise information not
only respecting himself but liis
family and connections. The guar-
dians of the young lady insist on
this course being i&sau An early
The Matrimonial Agent.
185
day is appointed to arrange the pre-
liminaries, and on going to the
agent's, the dupe finds the lady and
her annt there—by the merest
chance. In their presence a clerk is
snmmoned and the necessary indi*
cations drawn up in writing.
The clerk's expenses and time,
together twenty francs a day, for
say a week, as two days will be con-
sumed in trayelling, with eighty
francs for railway and dib'gence fare,
will have to be paid. The client
hesitates at this new drain npon
bun, whereupon the axmt, in the
most natural maimer in the world,
Tolnnteers to bear half the expenses,
and, to set the dupe an example,
produces her purse, an el^ant
knitted bead one, and hands the
agent her share. With the view of
paying court the dupe admires the
purse; ia informed—as indeed he
fiurmised— that it was made by the
niece, and the acceptance of it is
forced upon him by the aunt, who
will listen to no refusal. As iron
must be beaten while it is hot, the
clerk is to start at once, and the
oUent pays his hundred and ten
francs.
As the week devoted to the in-
2uiry is drawing to its close the
upe looks in at the agency to hear
if mere is any news. The ladies are
not there on this occasion, but the
agent is, and he takes care to remind
Imn of the purse and the necessity
of making a suitable acknowledg-
ment, which, under present circum-
stances, the more handsome it is the
more, he explains to the dupe, it
will be to his advantage, for the
niiece, he takes care to inform him,
will in all likelihood succeed to her
aunt's fortune. With the view of
not being thought mean, the dupe
presents the lady with a diamond
ring worth two hundred and fifty
francs, the stone of which, remounted
as a pin for the agent, will serve to
dazzle future dupes.
Usually by the time the week
has elapsed the clerk is reported to
have fallen ill in the country; has
met with a sunstroke, or been put
between damp sheets, according to
the season of the year. His illness
' lasts four days, for which another
eighty francs have to be paid, as it
will look exceedingly mean to ask
the aunt to bear her share of this
trifle. The dupe's purse-strings are,
therefore, again unloosened, though
all this time the clerk has not only
been perfectly well but has never
even quitted Paris.
At length the client grows impa-
tient, and speaks out; whereupon
the agent assumes an air of profound
sadness, and announces to him, with
marked emotion, that he has had a
narrow escape : that his, the agent's,
vigilance and foresight have saved
him from a great misfortune, for he
has discovered that the paternal
parent of the young lady, respecting
whom there had always been a
mystery, had been guillotined for
murder. Her own reputation, too,
is whispered against, and her pre-
tended fortune is equally doubtful.
The dupe, surprised and horrified at
this revelation, though regretting
the money he has paid, cannot but
congratulate himself that this is no
more, and feels grateful at his escape.
He has paid altogether about a
thousand francs. The game is
played out so fiur as he is concerned,
but he only retires to make way
for some one else equally mercenary
and equally foolish.
The Frenchman of good family,
who has sown his wild oats and got
entangled with usurers, and who
seeks a wife to relieve him of his
debts and to open a new career for
liim, or at any rate to provide him
a place by the fireside where he can
repose now that his turbulent course
has run itself out, has no need of
the services of a matrimonial agent
to accomplish the object of his de-
sires. He simply betakes himself
to the family notary and inquires of
him whether he has among his
clients a young lady with a dowry,
of say, eight hundred thousand
francs.
'I have something better than
that,' replies the gentleman in black;
' I have a million and upwards, half
in land and half on mortgage/
'Bravo I Where is the land?'
* In Normandy.'
'Capital! What age is your
clients
'Between twenty and four-and-
twenty; you understand, there-
186
Ths Mabrimanud Agent.
fore, one is in no paftienlar
hurry.'
* Ho v abont her charms ?*
' Y&j pleasant, I assure yon ; very
pleasant^
'Come, out with it; she is as ugly
assin?*
* Nothing of the kind. Her teeth
are a little amiss, I admit, bat that
is alL Besides, what does it matter,
pretty or ngly ? it's all the same six
months after marriage.'
'You are right there, and may
look upon the business as settled, if
you will guarantee that the mort-
gages are good.'
* They are first class investments
—on property worth three millions.'
'That's conclusive. Tell me,
though, about her family.'
'Well, this is not the brilliant
side of the affiur. She is the only
daughter of a builder, so that she
moTes in rather a low strata of
society. Her fftther is of little im-
portance. He will tell you how he
came up to Paris in his sabots, and
that he has made four millions by
the sweat of his brow. Hide from
him that you lie in bed until eleven
o'clock, as he has a theory that every
man who is not up and about at five
is a good-for-nothing scamp. As for
the mother, providing you get her
boxes to see the melodramas that are
the rage, she will pardon you every-
thing, even beating her daughter.'
'Just so. This worthy couple
are of course flanked by any num-
ber of relations — uncles, aunts, cou-
sins, and such like?'
'Egad! yes. However, you see
them all on the day of the wedding,
and next day '
'Zounds! next day I'll show every
living soul of them the door. It is
not they who will trouble me.'
' Not quite so &st Listen to me.
You must be very careful of old
uncle Jalabert. He is seventy-
three, asthmatic, without children,
and has forty thousand francs a
year. He has been in the army,
and will recount to you all the cam-
paigns he has gone through. Pro-
viding you join in his admiration of
the great Napoleon, he'll ask nothing
further of you. I do not see, too,
why you should not x>ay a little
court to aunt Ursala, an elder daugh-
ter, and turned fifty-nine. She will
tell you that all men are rascals,
not even yourself excepted: stilly
there is no harm in letting her have
her say— it's a relief to h&t'
'Thank you kindly for all your
hints. I'll devote one day to this
mena<^erie. But how do you pro-
pose to introduce me?*
' That can be easily acoomplished.
Come and dine with me aiKl th^i
on Sunday, and by eleven o^cloek
you'll be betrothed.'
' What you say is all very fine,
but how do you know that I shall
be accepted?'
' Make your mind easy on that
score. If you had not turned up
BO opportrmely I should have written
to you. The parente want to marry
the girl and stipulate for a titla
You are a viscount, and everybody
knows you go to Compi^gne ; that's
quite suffident to turn the heaife of
the entire trading daas in France.'
' You know that I am in debt?*
' I have no doubt of that What
is the figure ?*
' In round numbers about three
hundred thousand '
'A mere bi^telle. It is only
making the Loriols pay toll on enter-
ing into the old nobili^ — a tax upon
armorial bearings, in fact'
'Ifs underetood, then— on Sun-
day next. Good-bye.*
On Sunday the dinner takes place
as arranged, and everything comes
off exactly in accordsjice with the
notary's programme.
Such a purely business matter is
marriage in France, and so tho-
roughly is it underetood that in this
light only are parente accuAtomed
to look at it, that one finds a French
writer jocosely proposing that the
government should iteelf establish
a grand matrimonial agency, having
central offices in Paris, with branches
in all the departmente and abroad,
and which should absorb all the
existing agencies and be administered
by a distinct staff of ito own, just
like any other government office.
Men distinguished for their tact and
the purity of their morals placed at
its bead, would, be suggeste, inspire
confidence in families having daugh-
tere to marry. Individuals of the
male sex desirous of having recourse
The Mairmaniud AgenL
18T
to tbe iBtBnnediation of the agency
would be required to fdmifih foil
infomwtioii respeeting their personal
appearanoe> age, state of health, and
family oonnectionB, aooompaaied by
medical certificates, abstracts of title-
deeds, schedules of yalnables, ex-
tracts from registers, together with
legal attestations of regnlarity of
life and moral conduct. The adop-
tion of all these precautions, the
writer maintains, would give that
degree of moral security to marriage
contracts which unhappily they lack
at the present day.
As the clergy and the magistracy
are the two classes best informed in
France, and brought most in con-
tact with the people generally, and
as, moreover, they are public func-
tionaries, it is propoeea that they
should be required to furnish the
administration of the agency with
moral portraitures of individuals re-
siding within their jurisdiction who
may be desiroua of being inscribed
on the register. These, together with
the document before mentioned as
also letters from principals of colleges
at which these individuals may have
been educated, and certificates from
heads of departments or employers
under whom they may have served,
would all be placed in their par-
ticular receptacles. The admirable
centralization which renders France
an object of envy to other nations
would thereby have new and con-
genial duties imposed upon it, re-
assuring in the nighest deg^e to
families and largely conducive to
good morals.
A gnuid photographic establish-
ment might be attached to the cen-
tral agency and smaller ones to the
i^^encies in the depsrtments. Fami-
lies disposed to give dowries of fifty
thousand francs would be entitled
to inspect two ordinary photographs
of candidates inscribed on the regis-
ters, one seated, the other standing,
one a front view, the other in pro-
file. When the dowry mounts up
to a hundred thousand francs, por-
traits might be demanded one-sixth
of the natural size; when to two
hundred thousand francs, one-fourth
life size, with an equestrian portrait
in addition. A dowry of two huu"
deed and fifty thousand francs would
be entitled to special photographs
of the cranium, to show the state
of preservation of the hair, and of
the teeth to attest the condition of
the molars and incisors. If re-
quired, photographs of both feet and
hands would also have to be fur-
nished to demonstrate that theso
are of proper aristocratic dimen-
sions. Larger dowries nnght be
entitled to demand portraits ai can-
didates under a variety of speeial
aspects, so as to guaid against sub-
sequent disillusions, such as in full
evening dress with silk stockings
and smalls, in dressing-gown and
slippers, and even in nightcap, or
representing the individual under-
gomg the painful operation of
shaving himself. One can conceive
the high position that photography
would thus attain to ; it would, in
fact, become elevated into a social
institution of the utmost importance,
and would be the means of sparing
alike principals and their families
from numerous cruel deceptions.
Every proposal inscribed on the
books of the agency would require
to be accompanied by a demand
specifying the amount of fortune
and the precise kind of social posi-
tion which the party making it
aspires to. These would be duly
classified, and every week a printed
list, dividing them into categories,
would be posted up at the Bourse,
enabling every one to see at a glance,
as it were, the state of the matri-
monial market, how many magis-
trates and other functionaries, mili-
tary and naval officers, professional
men, merchante, tradesmen, and
employes of every description, there
were in search of wives, together
with their respective incomes and
the dowries they ai»pired to, as also
the number and value of the dowries
that were in the market. In due
course a market price would be
established, subject, however, to
fiuctuations like all other commo-
dities when supply is in excess or
falls short of the demand. If, for
instance, magistrates should happen
to be in great request, their valuo
would rise, and they would natu-
ral ly aspire to larger dowries. Poli-
tical and social evente would have
their effect upon this market as
188
the PiceaiiOg Papen.
upon all others. A threatened war
would cause military men to fall
jnst as a peace with Oochin-china
would send np East India mer-
chants, and in all probability im-
prove the quotations of naval officers.
A low state of the public health
would raise the rate of doctors in
the same way that a new cattle-
plague would depress the agricul-
tarists. Alterations in the press
laws would necessarily elevate or
bwer journalists according as these
were either mfld or stringent Every
one, on opening his newspaper of a
morning, would have the satisfac-
tion of seeing his precise quotation
in the matrimonial market, and from
carefully studying the fluctuations,
would be enabled to choose the par-
ticular moment when his value was
at what he conceived to be its highest
point, and could then hasten to sign
the marriage contract with the object
of— let us hope— his future affec-
tions.
THE PICCADILLY PAPEES.
By a Pebipatktic.
8LEEPLE8BHI83 AND SLEEP.
AMONG the minor miseries of
human life, where, however, the
misery may come to the maximum
point of misery, is that most dis-
tressing complaint of Insomnia,
In these days of highly-strung ener-
gies and rapid living sleeplessness
is becoming more and more pre-
valent among us, a serious thing in
itself and serious as a symptom.
The subject is obscure and diffi-
cult as it is important and interest-
ing; a subject partly physical and
pifftly metaphysical, in which mind
and matter, morals and medicine, are
singularly intermingled. 'Half our
days we pass in the shadow of the
earth,' says 8ir Thomas Browne,
' and the burthen of death extracteth
a third part of our lives.' Many
of my readers will recollect Warton*s
Latin epigram on Sleep. I can-
not lay my hand on it just now,
but I can give my own version of
it:—
' Ob« gentle sleep, thine Inflnence give.
Aud thoagh like death drew nigh ;
Living, behold we do not live;
And dying, do not die.'
' Blessed is the man,' says Sancho
Panza, 'who invented sleep;' but
although Sancho Panza would pro-
bably admit that this invention was
made in a very early period of the
history of the human race, it is re-
markable that there is no subject
on which opinions are so entirely
unsettled as on the subject of sleep,
authors on the subject, within such
wide limits as indicated by such
authors as Aristotle and Lord
Brougliam, have failed to unfold to
ns the mystery; and, if I may be
forgiven the remark, I am afraid
that those who suffer from sleep-
lessness must fall back on an em-
piric mode of treatment.
I sympathize intensely with the
sleepless. It is all very well to be
moralizing and practical, and to
say that if we cannot sleep we had
better lie awake and think, or strike
a light and read or write. I have at
least one most interesting letter from
a dear fellow— now gone over to the
majority— who sajs he could not
sleep, and so has got up to write to
me. As a rule I do not approve
of people lying in bed 'thinking,'
as they are pleased to term it ; they
do not think, they only think they
think — which is a very different
matter. The habit of lying in bed
of a morning 'thinking' after it is
time to get up is hardly better than
dram-drinking. The waking state
or the sleeping state are tolerable
enough, but the intermediate state,
neither waking nor sleeping, is
intolerable. If you knew you
could not sleep it would be easy
enough to strike a light and read ;
but you refrain from doing so
through the delusive hope that
The Piccadilly Pajpers.
189
yon have a real cbanoe, which yoa
must not mar, of presently going to
sleep. Of coarse if you are yery
anziona to go to sleep this yery
anxiety is quite sufficient to pre-
yent your doing so. I know per-
sons who can neyer count on more
than two hoars' Bleef) at a time,
and the amount of time is abso-
lutely astounding during which
people are absolutely sleepless in
cases of mania or feyer. Nature,
howeyer, is very wonderful in her
compensations, and adapts herself
most curiously to all changes in the
constitution. As a rule, too, opiates
can insure; sleep when absolutely
necessary. But opiates haye their
limits, which are speedily reached.
Sir William Hamilton would take
fiye hundred drops of laudanum
without being able to detect hardly
the slightest effect I remember
also rather a distinguished literary
man on whom anodynes were as
powerless us water. Most weari-
some of all weariful feelings is that
of counting the hours of the clock
during the sleepless hours in which
existence is a mere burden and
drug.
It is said, with eyery appearance
of truth, though the proof is not
conclusiye, that sleep is due to a
diminished supply of arterial blood
in the head. The brain matter
becomes unable to undergo the
changes through which the mind
makes its manifestations. Physi-
ologists are agreed that towards
eyening or after a certain number
of hours of work the inyoluntary
organs, the heart and lungs, lose
their wonted actiyity and suffer a
periodical diminution of action.
Blumeubach describes the case of
a patient trepanned in whom the
brain was obi^yed to sink during
sleep and enlarge on waking, ob-
yiously arising from the circulation
being diminished in the* former
state and increased in the latter.
' Arterial blood alone can cause the
waste of the brain, for yenous blood
has already parted with its oxygen
to the materials met with in its
course. Matter in a state of inertia
cannot manifest the existence of a
power. Motion alone shows that
some power is in operation. If the
portion of matter used as the organ
of manifestation be placed in such
a condition as to render that mani-
festation impossible there is no
eyidence to the world that power
was exerted.' It was an old error
among physiologists, that there was
more blood, or at least as much,
during sleep as in wakefulness;
but this was disproyed by Blumen-
bach, and still more conyincingly
by a philosopher who made one of
the cruel though striking experi-
ments with which medical science
abounds, and which finds its horrid
culmination in yiyisection. He
cut away part of the skull of an
animal, and cemented in its place
a piece of glass, through which he
could obserye the brain in its dif-
ferent states. This experiment has
been repeated in Germany, in Eng-
land, and in America with like
results. In the waking state the
brain is larger than it is during
sleep ; while in the latter condition
it becomes pale and bloodless. If
the animal be disturbed by dreams
a blush suffuses parts of the brain.
The eye, which may be looked
upon as an exposed part of the
brain, acts in a similar way ; for it
has been shown that the optic disc
is whiter, the arteries smaller, and
the yeins larger in sleep than in a
waking state.
The two great objects of sleep
are, first, the restoration of wasted
organs; and, secondly, the storing
up of force. It is eyident that any
material disturbance or defeat of
these two great objects is ruinous,
and within a yery short distance
of a certain line becomes fatal. It
is wonderful, howeyer, in how
many instances at what a remote
point Nature begins to draw this
line of destiny. During sleep force
is stored up in the body in a re-
markable manner, aa has been
shown by a series of interesting
experiments. The King of Bayaria
erected a chamber, supplied with
eyery appliance for measuring
the air which enters it and for
ascertaining the composition of the
air that passes from it. This
chamber is sufficiently large to
enable persons to liye comfortably
in it daring the time that they arc
190
7%e PieeadSfy Pcs^ef.
made the salijeelB of experuneniB.
Among other lemarlatble resntts
which have flowed fiom the en-
lightened libenlify of the BaTariui
king we have a series of experi-
ments made on Tadoas indifidnala
during their waking and sleeping
state, from which many interesting
results have been derived, set forth
by scientific jonmals, and by a
fierial nnsorpafised in its scientific
and intellectnal character, the
' North British Beview.'
I cannot, however, agree with
the reviewer in his minatory and
disrespectful language towards that
large, most respectable, and most
solvent section of the BritLsh public
that habitually indulges in an after-
dinner nap. ' The post -prandial
sleeper draws his chair to the fiie,
in oraer that his nap may be undis-
turbed. There are two physio-
logical reasons for this act Less
oxygen is entering his body to bum
the food, and he feels cold; but
this cold would excite the respira-
tory corgans to increased activity
and disturb his contemplated en-
joyment An after-dinner sleeper
temporarily resembles the perma-
nent condition of a pig fattened for
tiie butcher. In its case fat accu-
mulated round the viscera pushes
up the diaphragm against the lungs,
and compels them to play in a con-
iracted space. When the animal
furthw diifitends its stomach with
food it gives a few grunts as an
inefiectual attempt at a more active
respiration, and is in a deep sleep
in a few minutes. Obese men,
from a similar cause, are also prone
to sleep.' I call this an unkind
and even an unfeeling remark.
Would it not also be simpler
and more correct to say that the
blood is driven from the surface
to the centre to aid digestion?
Neither shall I be deterred by the
great authority of the reviewer
from counselling people to enjoy
their customary siesta. If Nature
makes a man sleepy I think that
she designs that a man should go
to sleep. She is quite as philo-
sophical as any of the philosophers.
There is a bastard sort of sleep,
a condition of ooma, consequent
on repletion, which ought to be
aToided; and moderatkm, not an
immoderate moderation, in diet
ahould be preserved. After din-
ner also some employment of the
gentlest kind may be wisely taken
in hand— a glance at a newspaper
or magazine, the writing of some
trifling notes, a stroll in the
garden, and a slight dessert,
where dessert is always ' best
taken, off the fruit trees. Then
take a nap, after thus idly dallying
with the charms of leisure. I be-
lieve tiiat a brief nap of this sort is
invariably attended vrith salntaxy
efieot It has always been noted that
to close the eyes even for a Ibw
minutes in sleep is a wonderful relief
to the brain. Some men have fttUen
asleep on horseback, and otbexs ean
even sleep while walking, besideB
the unfortunate somnambulists. I
know two men who were walking
along a country road on a dark
night A. clutched B.'6 arm tightly
and deliberately walked with olesed
eyes. Some tune afterwards B.
said, ' I hope. A., you are vralking
Tery carefully, for I have kept
my eyes closed for tibe last half-
hour.' Fortunately the two Go-
thamites had contrived to keep
clear of the ditches.
All kinds of remedies have been
suggested for sleeple6sneB8--optum,
henbane, chlorodyne, strychnia,
pmssic acid, aconite, &c. A lady
who had suffered fearfully this way,
wrote to me some time ago to say
that she had derived great benefit
from sleeping with her head to the
north. This seems to be absurd,
and there is nothing in our {ffesent
limited knowledge of electricity
which appears to connt^aanoe it.
I only give it as an observed &ct
in this particular instance. Another
Buffmer tells me that great benefit
has been derived from taking a glass
of sherry and a sandwich immedi-
ately before going to bed. The
reason of this is perfectly intelli-
gible. According to the late modem
dinner hour the somnolent effect of
food has passed off, and the excitant
effect has set in just about bedtime.
To those who suffer this vray I
would strongly recommend the
canon pursued l^the great states-
man, Mr. Windham, as described
a%e P»oodU% Poftm.
191
by idm m the ' Diary ' pnblisbed a
few years aga He most acoarately
noted uid leeorded erery pnrtionlar
tbat Bttgfat bear any idation to bis
wast of sleep, aaid justifies his ap-
pai8Qt]y trivial and wnnterestrng
entries by the great importanoe of
the subject By ibis method a man
may be able to find ont for himself
the right diagnosis and the right
treatment A fev general particn-
lars shooid be noted. The nse of
opiates, except on ittre occasions or
in special instances, shonld be
ayoided. The oorrect dietaiy sys-
tem shonld be discovered and re-
oeive carefnl adherence. The sim-
plest and best remedies are abun-
dance of exercise and air. What a
wonderfol compensation for many
losses is that sound, dreamless, in-
vigorating sleep which the labourer
almost invariably enjoys! A balance
between mental and bodily exertion
ought to be maintained. Scholars
and thinkers may often sleep badly,
but I know, too, clever lazy fellows,
who, with ploriy of fresh air, are
unable to sleep, singly because
they have, not given their brains
sufficient exercise. Dreaming is an
intensely interesting portion of the
subject It will be recollected that
Ooleridge wrote down his fine poem
of '£ubla Ehan' from his recollec-
tion of what he had composed in a
dream — a most peculiar psycho-
logical fact. I myself remember
composing a few Latin verses in a
dream, which I was able to recal on
waking, but to my great disgust,
they were very feeble lines, and
contained one or more false quan-
tities. Scientifically speaking, it
appears probable that dreaming is
nothing more than a wakefulness of
one portion of a nervous centre,
while the other portions and the
other centres are in a state of sleep.
Thus, through the transformation of
one region of brain substance, par-
ticular feelings and certain orders
of ideas may be called into active
life, while all remaining feelings and
ideas are asleep, and so no process
of comparison or reflection can be
exercised by tiiat part of the brain
which is sleeping over that which is
wakeful. The subject, however, is
too large for discussion now. I will
only add &at moral cansiderations
are by no means wanting in snob a
subject, and that there are no
better disposing agencies towards
light, gentie, healthful idumbers
^n simple tastes, a purified oon-
8cienoe,.and a balanced harmonicms
life.
THE PALKBTINE EXFLOHATION FUND.
An exhibition has been opened
this season in the Dudley Gallery of
the Egyptian Hall ivhich has a
unique position of its own. It con-
si^ of a very large number of arti-
cles which have been collected
together by the managers of the
Palestine Exploration Fund. The
catalogue, as catalogues often are,
is an extremely interesting publica-
tion, and brings together at one
view all tbat vast field that can
be occupied by the mvestigation
of European Christians. It mainly
consists of a list of an inomense
number of photographs taken in
the Hdy lioid for this Society.
The Exhibition princqMdly consiBts
of pottery, glass, oarvings, jkc, which
Lieutenant Wazfen has found in the
shafts. His work is much higher
than to seek illustrations of Jewish
art, but this also is one of the sub-
sidiary purposes which are accom-
plished, and he wisely sends home
all that the spades of the fellabin
turn up. It is not very much after
all, but there is a charm of associa-
tion about them, which, to most
minds, will be very considerable.
We must, however, forewarn our
readers, whom wo would willingly
send to this interesting collection,
that the subject is rather difficult,
and has a terminology belonging to
it which cannot be niastered without
an effort. It is remarkable that
amid all the travel that has been
extended on the Holy Land, and all
the poetry, sentiment, and religion
that has been lavished there, there
has rarely ever been any simple
practical desire for real knowledge
on the subject until the day of the
recent American traveller. Dr. Bobin-
son. We will yenture to believe
that a flood of light will ere long be
thrown upon sacred history, and
this effort is a veritable crusade in
192
ne PxeeadVUy Papen.
the canse of leligion and reyelation,
giving to religion a scientific cha-
racter and to sdonee a religions
object.
Of all those reUgions meetings
which are held in London in the
season, perhaps there was none of
greater interest than the meeting on
Midsummer Day on behalf of the
Palestine Exploration Fund. It
might certainly be called the most
intelleotnal of the great religions
gatherings, including a chairman of
such eloquence and culture as Arch-
bishop Tnomson, and such speakers
as Mr. Deutsch, of the British Mu-
seum, Professor Owen, 'Bob Boy'
himself, t. e,, Mr. Macgregor, and
Mr. Grove was present, one of the
most conscientious and able littira»
teurs of the day. It is not too much
to hope that Lieutenant Warren's
exertions will enable us to construct
anew and aright the map of ancient
Jerusalem. Mr. Macgregor pointed
out the size and shape of the city of
Jerusalem, by descnbing where its
chief places would stand if the city
were planted in London. He con-
siderea that the dty could be placed
in Hyde Park or in a slightly larger
space. Mr. Deutsch said, that
though we ought not disooyer the
golden throne of Solomon, with its
lions, its eagles, and all its mag-
nificent array, yet things of great
importance had been bronght ta
light so far as we had gone. Some
important discoyeries were made by
Mr. Deutsch himself when he found
marks on the great wall of the Haram
es-Shereef exactly similar or rather
identical with those of absolutely
undoubted antique Phoenician struc-
tures in Syria. The exploration is
exciting deep interest all oyer the
Christian world, and yet it seems
that there is much difficulty in rais-
ing the modest sum of fiye thousand
a-year necessary to carry on the
work. We hear that some of the
shafts are stopped for want of funds,
at the very moment when we are
approaching the brink of the dis-
covery of most important problems.
There is possibly a danger that
some country less rich than Eng-
land may taJce the honour of the
work from our hands, or that we
may lose the facilities of explora-
tion which we now enjoy. Dr.
Thomson made a happy quotation
from the writings of a Spanish Jew
of the twelfth century, ' Sion, Crown
of Beauty I remember the tender
love of tby children whom thy hap-
piness filled with joy and thy fall
with mourning.' And on such a
feeling of love towards God-beloved
Jerusalem must rest any hope of the
successful progress of the Palestine
Exploration Fund.
/
I
1
-^..>,^K,
\;//
'4"§i^
y ^ r /•
', ^ ^
O
STUDIES FROM LIFE AT THE COUUT OP ST. JAMES'S.
^ H.R. n. Princess Beatbice.
B. \\ih Aprii, 1857.
Drawn by the late George H. Thomas. Engraved by William L. Thomas.
«l
m
HCASTLES FlUEXOLl* JVTTI3NT10V
LONDON SOCIETY.
SEPTEMBER, 1869.
KIKA AT TBS OORAGB VIXDOW^— See * M. OF K/
MR HARDCASTLE'S FRIENDLY ATTENTIONS, AND
WHAT CAME OF THEM.
CHAPTER L
BEWILDERMENT AT BBIGHTON.
* TF the gentleman who found the
X lady's glove at the ball of the
— th Dragoon Qnards at Brighton
on Wednesday last will be at the
Zoological Gardens in London on
Monday next, he may hear of some-
thing to his advantage.'
TOL. XVI.— NO. xcm.
The ' Southdown Reporter and
Devil's Dyke Free Press/ in which
the above advertisement was con-
tained, fell from the hands of a
gentleman who was reading that
enterprising print in the coffee-
room of an hotel in the town first
o
19i
Mr, Hardcasde'a Friendly Aitenlians^
referred to— the Sybarite Hotel,
facing the sea. I suppose it was
the fulyertisement that caused the
surprise, not to say emotion, which
eviaently possessed him. It oonld
not be the attack upon the Mayor,
nor the denunciation of the Town
Council, nor the exposure of the
Gas Company, nor the oleyer article
upon the dearth of local amuse-
ments, nor the pleasant reference to
'Cor Autumn Yisifeois,' nor the
eulogistic review of ' Cur talented
fellow -townsman's' Tolume of
poems, nor even the fiMsetions let-
ters about ladies' bomwls and high-
heeled boots. Tes, ft mnst h&ye
been the adyertisemail
There is one thing that a man ib
sure to do when an aononnoemeiit
in a newspaper ezeroinB upon him
suoh an effect that be drops the
newspaper upon tfara floor. The
odds are at least Lraafeard Street to
a C9iina orange tint he pficks the
newspaper up and leads the an-
nouncement again, nie gentleman
in qaBBtaxm adopted lius inevitable
oouzse of aotian; and while he is
engaged in mastering the interest-
ing paragraph, and making his re-
flections thereupon, I will tell you
who he was and all I knew about
him up to this period of his caraec.
You could see for yourself, as he
sat in the bow-window in the twi-
light, with the broad sheet spread
before him, that he was a gentle-
man, in the oonyentional sense of
the term; that he was a well-made,
manly-looking fellow of unmis-
takably military cut, with a lei-
surely expression of countenance
suggestive of the fact that he need
be in no hurry to assert his good
looks, as they were sufficient to assert
themselves; and if he kept curling
that long tawny moustache round
his thumb and finger you might be
sure that it was an action caused
by nervous anxiety rather than by
any thought of improving that
appendage. If you guessed his
age to be somewhere between
twenty and thirty you would not
be mistaken; and if you made a
bet that he was the Hon. Harry
Doncaster, brother to Lord St.
Leger, and a captain of light dra-
goons on leave from India, you
would win your bet beyond all
chance of dispute.
But you would never suppose,
unless you happened to know, what
a troubled life Harry Doncaster was
leading. Money had never been
the sfapong point of his £Buaiily, at
least during the last two genera-
tions. His brother the Viscount
had not much, and what he had he
wanted — for viscounts must have
money, of course, oome what may.
His family set Hatxy up in the
cavalry — he took a great deal of
setting up, by the way, though he
^ Im promotion by luck— and'he
mheritel tome priyate means horn
his mothsE. But in reference to
the latter hb made the not un-
common nastake of confounding
capital wiBi income; and the ori'
gmal sun, after several abortive
settiements in life, refused at last
to be made the sport of an unscrupu-
lous chequebook, and disappeared
indignantiy below the financial ho-
rizon. After tin pecuniary crisis
Hairy Doncaster, as far as any
additions to his pity were concerned,
WIS supported, like the faos^tttals,
by voluntary contributions. But
the Yoluntary system was no sub-
stitute for an establishment in his
ease; and m a tharoug^ state of
disendowment, without edifices,
glebeil, or any consolation of the
kind, he found himself in a state
which he described as ' dependent
on the generosity of my &mily,
who refuse to give me anything.'
Then he began to borrow, which
was crisis the second in his career.
He began by merely overdrawing
with his agents; and Cox, it must
be said for that obli^g firm, al-
lowed him a considerable fling.
But there is a point when even Cox
loses patience; and Harry Don-
caster, when he found his pay
looking very small in perspective,
compsLred with the massive fore-
ground of liability, did not relish
the effect of the picture, and
squared up vrith Cox by a great
convulsive effort It was then that
he took to borrowing in a direct
manner, and came to crisis the
second, as I have said. Now crisis
the second would not much matter ;
but it is very apt to lead to crisis
and what came (f ihem.
196
the fhird, when borrowing becomes
80 difficult as to approach the con-
fines of impossibility. And to this
gloomy boundary, I regret to say,
Harry Doncasier had arrived at the
period in question. He did not
Know, as he declared, how to turn
himself round, and performed the
process only, like the scorpion girt
by financial fire, the circle narrow-
ing with every sucoessiYe sun. He
began serious borrowing in India —
that gorgeous land which has the
&tal gift of credit in a bewildering
degree— and where the traO of the
serpent (of high interest^ extends
from the rice-fields of Bengal to
the rose-gardens of Oashmere.
He had a few debts in England at
the time. He thought they would
not matter; but they did. And he
soon found that the process which
follows non-payment in the one
country is much the Same as the
process which follows non-payment
m the other- the prinoipcu differ-
ence being that in India you are
arrested by a bailiff in a looser pair
of trousers. On coming home upon
leave he made another discovery —
that Eastern impecuniosiiy is a
tree of hardy growth, and will bear
transplanting to the West with
oonsidorable success. It was with
a profound conviction of this im-
portant truth that he began serious
borrowing in his native land; and
for a time his native land izeated
him with her well-known liberality
in the way of advances, and equally
well-known consideration witii re-
gard to their return. But there
is a time for all things, 'and that
for payment comes with remarkable
punctuality, and when it really
means business is apt to be a diffi-
cult customer. This is just what
Harry Doncaster is beginning to
discover when we find him at
the Brighton hotel conning over
the advertisement He has ex-
hausted worlds of leave, and will
have to imagine new if he wants
much more of it. But he dares not
return to his regiment under pre-
sent circumstances, and remaining
in England seems equally out of
the question. He has an idea that
the Ulterior of Africa would be a
proper part of the world for his
future sojourn; but a leceni; event
has made him reluctant to turn his
back upon the land of his youtii ;
and the latter feeling, I fancy, has
some connection with the advertise-
ment.
Were I to follow the example of
many miiEfguided novelists I should
represent Harry Doncaster, at ^is
juncture, as soliloquizing aloud,
and giving a snmmaiy of his past
life and present prospects, witn a
statement of the nature of the
question which occupies his atten-
tion, for the benefit of anybody who
might happen to be listening. But
people never do this in real life ;
and, confining myself to facts, I
shall simply mention that a few
muttered words escape him to this
effect,^
'Must be meant for me— will
risk iiH-Hcan't come to any grief on
a Sunday.'
And with the newspaper still in
his hand he rises, with the intention
of making for the fireplace, by the
side of which is the only bell-
handle he happens to call to mind,
though there are half a dozen about
the room. But he pauses in the
act, for there is a stranger sitting
with his back to the bell-handle,
finishing his dinner 'in a leisurely
manner; and it is evident that
Harry Doncaster cannot get to the
bell without disturbing the stranger.
The two have been taking their
respective repasts a few paces apart
Each has been well aware of the .
presence of the other, but each has
Ignored the other's existence, as in
conventional duly bound — a very
proper arrangement, by the way, in
a public room, which ought to be
a private room to anybody who
pleases to make it so.
Having an object in so doing,
Harry Doncaster considers himself
warranted in addressing the stranger,
which he does by asking him to ring
thebeU.
There are various ways of asking
a man to ring a bell, and Harry's,
upon this occasion, was a little un-
ceremonious — unintentionally so.
But the stranger obeyed the man-
date, and had evidently no intention
of ordering the other stranger's car-
riage, as the superb gentleman who
o a
196
Mr, HardcasUe^a Friendly AUentiofUy
invented Brighton did with Mr.
Brommell under similar circum-
Btances ; for before the waiter could
obey the Bummona he remarked to
Captain Doncaater—
' It is not the first time that I
have obeyed your orders.*
'Indeed/ said Harry; *I don*fc
remember that you have served with
me.'
' No, but I have served things /or
you at Harrow ; don't you remem-
ber your fag, Jack Shomclifife?'
* Of course I do, and I am very
glad to see you again, but should
not have known you, you're so
altered.' Mr. ShomclifTe, as he now
appeared, was a person of small
stature, particularly neatly and com-
pactly bailt, with a face that was
particularly neat and compact also,
and the same character belonged to
his hirsute adornments. He had a
very keen eye, and was very decided
in speech and manner.
'Well, yon don't expect me to
look such a fool as I was then,' said
he. ' I knew you at once; saw you
the night before last at the Plungers*
ball, but couldn't speak to you —
always with some girl.'
* You mean you were.'
' Yes, of course ; you seemed to
be mooning about doing nothing.'
' And what are you doing your-
self, in another sense? You were
going into the service, but I never
heard of you, or noticed your name
in Hart' ;
'No; the paternity changed his
mind about me. Ho made the dis-
covery that at least nine out of ten
of our immediate family who have
gone into the army have punctually
•come to grief, and are at the present
time head over ears in debt'
Harry could not deny that there
4ire officers of the army in such a
predicament
' So he put me in his bank instead,
where I am a partner—awf ally rich
— want a few hundreds, eh?*
Harry started at the question^
jestingly put as it was—for he was
by no means used to such pleasant
inquiries. For a moment he felt a
fiendish temptation, but he re-
strained himself. The thing would
never do, at any rate it would be
premature at the present time. Mr.
Shomcliffe abruptly returned to the
subject of the ball.
'I saw who you were looking
after there, the unknown enchan-
tress with the pompous papa. Did
you find out who they were? I
couldn't Governor must be an
alderman, I suspect: they came
from London, that was all I could
pick up.'
Harry Doncaater looked a little
confused, but he^ answered care-
lessly—
' Ah ! I know the people you
mean, but I did not find out their
names. Of course I admired the
lady, like everybody else.'
* Superb creature,' pursued Mr.
Shorncliffe. ' It would be invidious
to particularise where all is perfec-
tion, as puffing critics say in the
papers; but I think her great points
are her eyes and shoulders— it would
be difficult to say which are tiie
brightest of the two.'
Harry Doncaster pretended to
laugh at this criticism, but did not
half like it. Jack Shorncliffe pro-
ceeded—
' I suspect her eyes are too blue
to be very bright by day; but
there is no mistake about her shoul-
ders. Alabaster is a ridiculous
comparison. There are no com-
plexions like alabaster, and I should
be very sorry if there were; her
shoulders are simply like ivory, and
the elephant tribe ought to be much
obliged to me for the comparison.'
Harry was getting angry by this
time, but he refrained from any
manifestation which might betray
his secret (you know as well as I do
that he had a secret), or, still worse,,
make him appear ridiculous. The
subject of conversation, too, was
gleasant to him upon any terms, so
e allowed Shomcliflfe to proceed.
' I should like very much to know
who found her glove,' pursued that
gentleman. ' I know that she lost
one, for a man who saw her leaving
the ball said she turned round to
look for it while stepping into her
carriage, and that the governor said,
" Oh, it doesn't matter, you are close
at home." You have seen the ad-
vertisement in the paper, of course ?
Ah I you have the paper in your
hand.'
and what came of tJiem.
197
Harry Doncaster, at the com-
menoement of this colloquy, had
taken his seat at Shorncliffe's table,
and had brought the ' South Down
Eeporter and Devil's Dyke Free
Press' with him, for the simple rea-
son that he did not think of laying
it down. However, there was no
betrayal involved, and Harry simply
said that he had seen the advertise-
ment, adding, what was strictly
trne, that he was as much mystified
by it as his companion. •
But I am sorry to say that the
matter did not end here. The two
gentlemen spent the evening to-
gether, as well as that process could
be performed in the absence of pri-
vate engagements; that is to say,
they walked out upon the new pier,
and returned at ten o'clock or so to
the hotel, where they were both
staying. During their walk the
conversation had not fallen upon
the lady of the lost glove, but it did
so when they returned, and Jack
Shomcliffe, growing confidential,
avowed himself an ardent admirer
of the lady, whose acquaintance, he
said, he was determined to make.
The family lived in London, he knew,
and if nobody would introduce him
he would introduce himself. He was
possessed, he added, of ' a genial
audacity which might be mistaken
for cheek,' that never failed in such
cases. This was not at all pleasant
to Harry Doncaster; but he could
not help remembering that one
stranger has as much right to be in
love with a lady as another stranger.
When, however, Jack ShomcTifife
grew bold over his not unqualified
seltzer, and began to express his
admiration in a similar strain to
that in which he had previously in-
dulged, Harry remonstrated, some-
what to the speaker'sastonishment —
' Why, the lady is nothing to you?'
said Shomcliffe, inquiringly.
' I am not sure/ replied Harry.
And then, I regret to say, he was
weak enough to own the state of his
own feelings, and, what was worse,
to acknowledge himself as the finder
of the glove, which article he pro-
duced from his breast-pocket in
proof of the assertion.
Mr. Shomcliffe was very fax from
relishing this revelation, and the
pair presently found one another's
society not quite so pleasant as it
had been before. They discovered,
in &ct, that sitting up was a bore,
and determined to go to bed. Harry
Doncaster was the first to leave. He
did not go to bed, but went out for
another walk by the sea.
When he returned to his room he
felt in the breast-pocket of his coat,
remembering that it would not be
well for its contents to come under
the notice of his servant in the
morning.
The glove was gone !
CHAPTER ir.
WHAT HAPFENEO AT THE ZOOLOGICAI.
OABDENS.
Sunday at the Zoological. The
season is drawing to a close, but the
day is one of the fullest that there
has been since its beginning. Every-
body is there ; but that ia not say-
ing enough. There are all the
necessary nobodies to keep the
everybodies in countenance, and
save them from staring at one
another like idiots. There is even a
Boyal Prince and a Boyal Princess,
and these illustrious personages
actually seem to like being present,
for nobody bores them with intru-
sive attentions.
The day is one of the finest as
well as one of the fullest of the sea-
son, and the one fact, I suppose, ac-
counts considerably for the other.
It has doubtless influenced the toi-
lettes, which are lighter and airier
thaji ever, as far as the ladies are
concerned; and what wonderful
coiffures thefie same ladies wear!
Coiffures seem to reach their culmi-
nating point at the Zoological; go
anywhere afterwards and you al-
ways notice a declension.
There is nothing to do, of course,
at the Zoological after you have been
to see some of your favourite ani-
noials. There are always a few of
these in fiBushion, and you ' do' these
rigorously. This object accom-
plished, you concentrate your atten-
tion upon trying to get chairs, a
pleasing pursuit which passes away
an hour very well. As everybody
tries to get chairs, I suppose they
198
Mr, EardeaaUe^B Friendly Altentiowy
L
are th6 nnsiiccessful candidates who
walk about; and it is well that
somebody should so disport them-
selyes, otherwise sitting would be
comparatively dull work.
An elderly gentleman, to whom I
wish to call your attention, has been
foraging for seats ever since he
entered the gardens. He has not
regarded the chase, like more philo-
sophical persons, as an inciaental
piece of amusement, and has been
actually out of temper at the delay.
But see, he has at last brought dowv
his game, and comes upon the grass
with a chair in each hand ; and his
satisfoction is complete when, on
joining two ladies who form his
party, he finds that one of them has
found a seat for herself. As he also
is thus Eared from standing you
might suppose that he would begin
to be amiable. But he does nothing
of fhe kmd. He dislikes the place
and the people also, and, as he says,
doesn't care who knows it A more
insane way of passing the afternoon
he cannot conceive, and he expresses
his dissatisfaction in audible terms.
He is a portly person with a pink
face, dresses scrupulously in black,
with a white cravat of a previous
period of society, and a big diamond
brooch in the bosom of his shirt
which 'would buy half Northum-
foerlee,' if half Northumberlee hap-
pened to be for sale. Both his pink
face and his portliness are appear-
ances in his&vour. Neither is too
pronounced, and both draw that
nice line between prosperity and
apoplexy which one always rejoices
to see in elderly gentlemen.
Of the two ladies one is evidently
his wife and the other apparently
his daughter.
His wife is tall, stately, and re-
served; grandly rather than gaily
dressed, like many courtly persons
of her period in life whom one meets
in the exclusive circles of Madame
Tussaud— persons whose manners
have considerably more than the
repose .which stamps the caste of
Vere de Vere; for so little influ-
enced are they by vulgar emotion
that a condescending inclination of
the head, or a haughty turn of that
appendage upon their aristocratic
loulders are all the signs they
sh(
deign to make of taking the smallest
interest in their fellow-creatures.
The lady in question has evidently
modelled herself upon one of these
courtly dames. Tou can see at a
glance that her ideas of good-breed-
ing are entirely of a negative cha-
racter; and without overhearing
any &mily conversations you may
be sure that she tells her daughter
not to do this and not to do that,
because great people never do any-
thing of the kind, neglecting, of
course, to add what it is that great
people do do, and in what respects
the nature of their activity dififers
from that of little people.
Her daughter, ah 1 her daughter
is very different Tou have heard
some account of her in the artless
criticism of Mr. Shomcliffe; for —
there need be no mystery in the
matter—she is indeed the unknown
enchantress of the Plungers* ball!
But Mr. Shomcliffe, with all hia
enthusiasm and powers of descrip-
tion, did nothing like justice to her
loveliness, which in its general cha-
racter was like that of a lolling lily,
if you can fancy a lolling lily with
an aggressive abundance of chestnut
hair and eyes the colour of the corn-
flower. She has, as Mr. Shomcliffe
observed, an ivory delicacy of sur-
f^; but that gentleman forgot to
mention the pale coral tints that
gave it relief. I am bound to admit
also, on my own account, that I
have never beheld a hly, lolling (X
otherwise, arrayed to such purpose
in pale blue. It was Solomon in all
his gloiy and the Uly combined.
But it will save trouble to tell
you at once who these people are.
Mr. Surbiton is principally known
for having made a great deal of
money. It is a very good reputa-
tion to have, and will carry its sub-
ject a considerable way into society.
It is not quite understood how the
money had been made, except, I
suppose, by Mr. Surbiton's old and
more immediate friends ; but he is
supposed to have begun in a very
small way and ended in a very large
way, and being now retired he is of
course in no way at all. But do
not suppose that people in general
care in what particular line of busi-
ness the money had been made, and
and wliat came of them.
199
yery few would tronble thexoselyes
on the subject bat for Mrs. Sur-
biton's honor at any hint of her
hoBband having been in trade, which
makes her Mends laugh occasion-
ally, and of coarse tends to keep
the fact before their eyes. Two-
ihirds of her life, I should think,
are passed in trying to conceal what
she considers this fisunily disgrace,
and, as feur as any degree of success
is concerned, she might as well pro-
claim it periodically from the house-
tops. Her main object at the pre-
sent time is to effect an aristocratic
alliance with her daughter. That
young lady, by the way, is happily
uninfluenced by the pecaliarities of
her parents. Bemg no more than
seventeen or eighteen years of age,
she is not able to remember the
humbler state of the family, and
having been educated away from
home she is unaJSected by any of its
traditions.
Scarcely have Mr. and Mrs. Sur-
biton and their daughter taken pos-
session of their chairs than they are
joined by a gentleman, a stranger,
who addresses himself to the head
of tiie fiunily in a manner indicatiye
of some special errand.
But I must here leave them to
note a scene which is enacting in
another part of the gardens.
♦ ♦ ♦ ♦
Harry I^mcaster has been two or
three times up and down that long
walk where the walkeis seem to
congregate for the amusement of
the people in chairs. He has per-
formed the process with some impa-
tience, having an object in view
apart from being stared at But
his glances right and left are evi-
dently not rewarded by the sight of
some persons of whom he seems to
be in quest, and after mingling for
a few minutes with the crowd on
the grass he turns away as if for
the purpose of being sJone. His
mood is plainly not a pleasant one,
and he seems preoccupied to an ex-
tent incompatible with enjoyment
of the Zoological. So he sits under
a tree and has an int^riew with
himself— a very unsatisfactory inter-
view, I should say, judging from
his frowns and occasional ejacula-
tions. It would end in a violent
quarrel, I have no doubt, but for a
diversion caused by the appearance
of a stranger.
Harry Doncaster, being rather
slender in figure than otherwise,
did not occupy the entire seven or
eight feet of the bench upon which
he had chosen to rest; so the
stranger availed himself of the va-
cant accommodation. This stranger
was one of the most agreeable per-
sons you ever beheld. He was
not a fiftt man, but he was cer-
tainly a plump man, with a beam-
iug, radiant presence, confirmed by
his face, which was so happy and
healthy, smiling and beneyolent, as
to be irresistibly attractive. A san-
guine complexion and sandy hair
may have had something to do with
the prevailing effect, but the genial
nature of the stranger shone espe-
dally in his eyes.
Harry Doncaster, preoccupied
though he was, could not avoid
notice of these characteristics ; so
when the stranger spoke to him he
did not resent the intrusion, but
showed himself to be fjAvourably
impressed.
' You do not remember me. Cap-
tain Doncaster ?' said the stranger.
Captain Doncaster could not dis-
pute the proposition. The stranger
continued —
' No doubt you do not ; you were
a small boy when we used to meet
But I was well acquainted with your
&ther, the late viscount — ^was, I may
say, his friend, and had the pleasure
of obliging him in many ways. Al-
ways happy to do it, too, having the
greatest respect for him and his
family. Beodes, it's always better
to make friends than enemies, and
every man has it in his power to
do some good in his generation if
he only has his heart in the right
place.'
Harry Doncaster was charmed to
hear such generous sentiments, and
professed some hereditary gratitude
for the services rendered to his
father, not that he knew their nature,
but he guessed that they might have
been of a pecuniary character.
' You do remember my name, I
daro say,' pursued his obliging
neighbour — ' Matthew Hardcastle.'
Harry Doncaster thought he r&-
200
Mr. Hardccaile's Friendly AUentions^
membered it— was not sore— yes,
he certainly— it seemed familiar to
him— he must have heard it at
home when he was yonng.
' Ah ! I thought you had not for-
gotten my name, at any rate/ said
Mr. Hardcastle, with a pleasant
chuckle; 'and now let me tell you
why I have recalled myself to your
recollection. Frankly, I wish to
render you a service. There is too
little sympathy in this world be-
tween man and man; we ought all
to do more for one another than we
do ; the curse of the world is selfish-
'My dear sir/ said Harry Don-
caster, 'it is charming to hear you
express such noble sentiments, but
I am not aware in what manner you
can do me a service. I am full of
troubles, but they are of a nature
very difficult to provide for, and a
stranger *
* Not a stranger,' interrupted Mr.
Hardcastle, taking Harry's hand and
grasping it with much warmth;
' say a friend. It is indeed in my
power to render you a service, and
fortunately it is not necessary to
test my friendliness by any sacrifice
on my own part. The service I am
able to render you will cost me
nothing. On the contrary, I shall
be a gainer by conferring an obliga-
tion in another quarter, not a pecu-
niary obligation of course. What I
mean is that I shall gain the lasthig
gratitude of the family of one of my
oldest friends, and that is payment
to me enough. Nobody ever said
that Matt Hardcastle ever did a
good action only for money, though
that perhaps is no merit of mine.
I don t know what I might have
done had I been poor, and we must
always be charitable to the errors of
needy men. Happily I have always
been beyond the reach of tempta-
tion.'
'Ton puzzle me,' said Captain
Doncaster, who thought that his
new friend would indeed be a clever
fellow if he could do anything for
him. But he remembered that he
had read of equally wonderful things
in the ' Arabian Nights' Entertain-
ments.'
' Now, let me be frank with you,'
Mr. Hardcastle continued. ' I know
your position at the present moment
to be one of great embarrassmentr
I know that you have for years past
spent a great deal more than your
incoma Tou have had expecta-
tions, doubtless, and were justified
in so doing; but these expectations
have not been realised as yet, and
you have no time to wait for them.
I know that besides a— if I may so-
call it— somewhat reckless personal
expenditure, pardonable in a young
man of family belonging to an ex-
pensive regiment, you have been-
unfortunate in horses and have
dropped a little at cards. You have
met debts of honour by contracting
legal obligations. There are som»
of them considerably over due, and
unless — ^in the immortal words of
our friend Micawber — "something^
turns up" for you, you may be coi^-
sidered in the light of a ruined man.*^
Harry was obliged to own that
this was but too fiuthf al a picture of
his state and prospects in life; but
he expressed some surprise tbat Mr.
Hardcastle should have arrived at
so accurate a knowledge of his con-
dition.
* Never mind how I came to know
it»' said that gentleman in his most
genial manner- 'I know a great
many things about a great many
people that they little suspect The^
fact is that I have rather a speciality
for doing friendly offices for people
in my humble way, and such cases
reach my ears sooner than they
reach those of most men. Now
there is only one way of extricating
yourself from your difficulties, and
that one way is— marriage.'
Harry Doncaster was deeply dis-
appointed at the nature of the
remedy proposed. As if he had
never thought of it before! Why,
it is the first idea that occurs to
every spendthrift who is hard
pressed. Harry did not avow this^
contemptuous opinion, however, but
contented himself with saying—
' I am much obliged, my dear sir,,
for your suggestion, and I must
confess it had occurred to me be-
fore. But there has always been
this difficulty in the way. I have a
frejudice against marrying a woman
don't like, and I have hithertO'
been unable to combine the necesr-
and what came of them.
201
sary coxiditions. When I have liked,
or nmcied that I have liked, a girl,
she has always tnrned out to be
without a penny, and richer than
myself only through having no
debts. On the other hand, women
with fortunes snfiSciently large to
enable them to take me, debts and
all, have always been objectionable
persons one way or another, besides
being mostly otuls. Indeed, women
in my own rank of life are not to be
had under the conditions, and I
have never found any with money
enough whom I cared even to ask.
I am not very particular about
grade, but in any grade I have
always met with the same difficulty.
As for selling myself entirely for
the benefit of my creditors, I have
not quite arrived at that pitch of
heroism. Of the two I prefer the
creditors to the kind of wife I could
get— Uiey may ruin me, but they
cannot force me to suffer my ruin
in their society.'
' But if I could introduce you to
a lady whom you would be sure to
like?'
' Thank you very much, my dear
sir,' rejoined Harry Doncaster, some-
what decidedly, and getting rather
red in the fBuoe, ' I have reasons, at
the present time, for not being pre-
pared to make the experiment'
' An attachment already formed,
eh? Excuse me — I am an older
man than you — for asking the ques-
tion. It is 60, 1 see by your face.
No doubt it does you honour, and
so do all the sentiments you have
expressed. It is something strange
to meet with the finer feelmgs in a
man who has passed through your
career. But supposing that I could
assist you with the object of your
choice ?*
' My dear sir, I have not told you
that I have any ch<Hce, and I re-
peat '
' Now, my dear friend, don't make
a stranger of me, who only wish to
oblige you. It is just possible that
your choice — or shall I call it your
fancy ?— is but a few days old.*
'You are certainly determined,
Mr. Hardcastle, to know as much as
I know myself.'
'It is not improbable that yon
never yet spoke to the lady ?'
' Mr. Hardcastle, I '
' That you do not even know her
name?'
* You are most determined in your
interrogatories.'
' That you never saw her but once
—at a ball?'
' Well, you evidently know some-
thing about it,' Faid Harry Doncas-
ter, his first instinct of resentment
appeased as he found his obliging
friend really as well informed as he
pretended to be.
' Supposing, then, as I have said,
I coula introduce you to the lady in
question?'
'You would indeed please me,,
but I know not to what it could
lead. To tell you the truth, I cam&
here on purpose to see her; but
even had I seen her I should scarcely
have ventured to introduce myself,
for I have no right to suppose that
either she or her family desired to
meet me, and the only excuse I had
for intruding I have somehow lost'
' You have lost the glove, then?*
' And you know about the glover
' Yes. I agree with you that they
were not likely to advertise for suck
a very unimportant article, and it
would certainly be strange if they
advertised for you.'
' That is just what occurred to
me. And you have seen the adver-
tisement too?'
'Well, I have heard about it
But you won't want the glove if I
present you myself.'
Harry Doncaster could not with-
stand the temptation ; and in a few^
minutes the pair were in the midst
of the promenaders, and peering in
every direction among the occu-
pants of the much-coveted chairs.
I left the Surbiton party taking
their rest, and being joined by a
stranger. You may guess who it
was—Mr. ShomcUffe, of course.
Mr. ShomcUffe rushed in where
Captain Doncaster feared to tread ;
but he considered himself the lesser
fool of the two on that account, and
I suppose he was in the right.
Lifting his hat with a half recog-
nition of the ladies^ this enter-
prising gentleman addressed him-
self to Mr. Surbiton, who rose from
202
Mr. EardcoiUei Friendly AtteniionSf
his seat with a oeriain air of defer-
ence; for Mr. Shomcliffe's manners
were imposing— to Mr. Sorbiton, at
any rate.
' I have taken the liberty of in-
truding upon yon here/ said Mr.
Shomcliffe, with composed audacity,
' in obedience to your hint'
' My hint, sir/ replied Mr. Snr-
biton, surprised out of politeness.
' What do you mean T
'Mean, sir! Is it possible that
you have forgotten the Plungers' —
the Dragoon Guards* ball at
Brighton, and the advertisement in
the ''South Down Eeporter?" I
am the finder of the glove.'
The latter communication was
oonyeyed in a low, confidential
tone, as if it bore the weight of a
state secret Poor Mr. Surbiton
was sorely perplexed. As soon as
he could find words to reply, he
said —
'Ball! Yes, I remember the
ball, and a yery dull affair it was.
But what the deuce you mean by
the advertisement and the glove I
can't say. Yon must take me for
somebody else, or have gone clean
out of your senses.'
And here the horrible idea
seized upon Mr. Surbiton that he
had to do with a lunatic of a dan-
g^erous kind; so, with a precau-
tionary instinct as creditable to
him as his promptitude of action,
he seiased the chur upon which he
had been sitting, covered himself
with it, and covered the ladies with
it, while awaiting a further demon-
stration on the o3ier side.
The attitude was so unusual at
the Zoological as to attract the
attention of several bystanders ; but
they were well-bred persons, and
did not precipitate a scene. The
ladies, if not alarmed, felt very
awkwardly placed, and Mrs. Sur-
biton told her husband in quiet, but
commanding tones, to resume his
seat, and hear what the gentleman
had to say.
' I can assure you, sir/ continued
Mr. Shomcliffe, rather amused than
otherwise, and speaking round the
chair for the benefit of the ladies,
' that I am not a madman, but am
most pleasantly in my senses, and
that I have intruded myself upon
you simply because I supposed you
desired my presence.'
The explanation seemed at least
reasonable, so Mr. Surbiton was per-
suaded to drop his defence and take
his seat upon it — a pacific movement
which satisfied the bystandera that
there was nothing the matter; so
they moved ofiT, and an apparently
promising scandal was nipped in
the bud.
' The gentleman will tell you, I
dare say, if you ask him/ said Mrs.
Surbiton severely to her husband,
' what he means by the advertise-
ment'
' Well, what do you mean?' said
Mr. Surbiton, sulkily.
' I mean the announcement
which appeared on Friday in the
" Southdown Reporter," ' said Mr.
Shomcliffe, taking from his pocket
the paragraph in question, which
he had i&ksa the precaution to cut
out
Mr. Surbiton read the advertise-
ment with amazement; then he
handed it to Mrs. Surbiton, who
read it and looked scandalized;
then Mrs. Surbiton handed it to
Miss Surbiton, who read it — and
laughed.
The latter lady was the first to
express her views on the subject
' If it relates to us, mamma, it
must be intended as a piece of fun-
though not such fun as a friend
would practise upon us. I cer-
tainly dropped one of my gloves as
we were going out; but nobody
could suppose that we should
advertise for such a thing as that;
and I, at any rate, saw nobody pick
it up.'
'I had that honour/ said Mr.
ShomcUffe, not quite so assuredly
as before, and addressing himself
still to Mr. Surbiton, though with
reference to the young lady, 'and
seeing the advertisement, I was
naturally under the impression
tbat-r-that— there was a desire to
communicate with me.'
' Then your impression was mis-
taken/ said Mr. Surbiton, recover-
ing his self-possession as he began
to understand the question at
issue. 'We know nothing about
the advertisement here; somebody
has been making a fool of you.'
and what came of them*
203
Mr. Shornoliffe began to think
that he had at least been making a
fool of himself, and sincerely wished
that he had left Doncaster to per-
form his legitimate part in the
afEair.
'Shall I at least perform the
commission which I have so inno-
cently undertaken, and restore *
Mra. Surbiton here interposed,
and stopped the movement which
the speaker was making towards his
pocket
'On no accotmt— such a pro-
ceeding conld not be permitted in
public— with the eyes of the world
upon us— and nobody here requires
the gloye.'
' If the gentleman had found the
little ring I lost the same evening
I should be obliged to him/ said
Miss Surbiton.
But Mr. Shomdiffe had unf6r«
tunately not found a ring.
*At least/ said that gentleman,
as he made a movement to depart,
' I hope that I shall be acquitted
of having taken a part in what
seems to be a very silly hoax. My
name— which I dare say is not un-
known to Mr. Surbiton— should be
some guarantee of my honourable
motives.'
And here Mr. Shomdiffe handed
his card to the gentleman whom he
addressed. The latter glanced at
it, and his manner changed imme-
diately.
' Bless me !— Mr. John Shom-
diffe I Are you of the house of
Grampus, Shomdiffe, and Co., of
Lombard Street ?*
' I am a partner in that firm.'
' My bankers. Then you are at
least a respectable person. My
dear sir, I am very glad to see you.
This business of the advertisement
is evidently a mistake— some foolery
of those military coxcombs. I am
very sorry that you have been
imposed on. Grampus, Shomdiffe,
and Co. — first-rate house — know
some of the partners. You don't
know me, I dare say.'
' Yoxa name, I have no doubt, is
known to me/ replied Mr. Shom-
diffe, with renewed confidence at
the turn which the conversation
had taken.
' My name is Surbiton, sir. Do
you know me now ? I have had an
account at your bank— and, I flatter
myself, never an unsatis&ctory
balance— for the last twenty years.'
' There is no name I know better
—none more honoured in the firm —
than yours. I am proud to make
your acquaintance, Mr. Surbiton.'
' And I am proud to make yours ;
though I must confess I thought at
first you were a swindler. Nevermind
— mistakes will happen. And now I
know who you are let me introduce
you to my wife and daughter.'
The wife and daughter duly
acknowledged the introduction —
neither of them, however, with any
unnecessary graciousness ; for Mrs.
Surbiton, now that her husband had
retired, ' did not approve of people in
business/ an'd Miss Surbiton did not
find herself taking much interest in
the person upon short notice*
However, Shomdiffe had gained
his point, and, attaching himself
sagaciously to the quarter where
he had made an impression, he
talked 'City' to Mr. Surbiton with
such success as to fairly win that
gentleman's heart
The aftemoon, which was young
when they entered the gardens, had
been middle-aged for some time
past, and now showed signs of
growing old. On every side people
were seeking social safety in flight.
Chai